Reflections
by Kurt
Summary: Ch 22 up, and this story is COMPLETE. Clarice Starling has been happy with Dr. Lecter in Argentina...up until now. Sequel to 'Family Ties'.
1. Out of Eden

                _Author's note:  Here we are, the sequel to 'Family Ties'. _

The city of Buenos Aires was beautiful, Clarice thought.  There were lovely old buildings and beautiful views of the Rio de la Plata.  Some of the art museums were just breathtaking.   They had season tickets to the Teatro Colon.  She'd learned to love opera, especially as her Italian had improved. 

                But some of the best parts of the city were also the simplest.  A walk through fine wide thoroughfares.  The architecture of the city was impressive.  The baroque mansions in the section of town where she lived with Dr. Lecter.   The parks, pretty and green and beautiful to visit.  The fine cafés in the ritzy part of the city.  Argentina was a country going through a financial holocaust, but that only made Dr. Lecter's hidden accounts more valuable, as they were denominated in US dollars.   

                Here, Clarice was at peace.  She was so very happy here.  She'd never once imagined life could be like this.  Instead of a career that only brought pain, she had everything she could possibly want.  She was respected.  Instead of being spoken of in tones that were invariably disrespectful, she was looked up to and admired.  The smart set of Buenos Aires all wanted to be like her.  

                She still had her lambs, after a fashion.  Clarice Starling had battled herself to save the lambs.  Now, she was quite fond of her charity work.  Many poor children in Buenos Aires received food, inoculations, and other medical help from her fortune.  Dr. Lecter privately disapproved, she suspected, but it made her happy and so he kept his opinions to himself.  And she was _recognized _for it, loved, wanted, respected.  Instead of a surly _Good job, Starling, _said only to keep her around for more, she got honest appreciation.  _Oh, thank you so much, Señora Paloma, my baby is healthy because of you, how can I ever thank you enough?  _

She didn't even want those she helped to grovel.  Clarice Starling knew well the sting to one's dignity that accepting help brings.  All she asked was that somewhere, they do something to help someone else.  It was enough for her to know she'd helped others.  

                Most of all, she had him.  It had taken her so very long to realize that she loved him.  He had helped her realize that.  She could have given up the money if she had to.  She didn't need much and could have gotten by with much less than she had.  She could have found alternate ways of helping her lambs.  She wouldn't have gotten the public recognition, but she didn't need that, really.  It didn't matter whether a charity hospital ward was named the Clara Paloma ward or not; what mattered was that the lambs were safe.  No, she loved him and she was happy with him.  Here in Buenos Aires, Clarice had come to a beautiful, crystalline inner peace.

                Today, she was meeting him for lunch at a café on the Avenida Alvear.   They did this often on Fridays, as a way to mark the weekend.  It was true that the week meant less to them than it did to those who had to work for a salary.  But still it was a pleasant ritual.  The café served a chocolate cake that Clarice had an admitted weakness for.  She'd gotten here before him to await his coming.   And today was a special day.

                She sat calmly in the café, enjoying her cappuccino.  It was a glorious spring day in Buenos Aires.  Even after all the years of living here, she wasn't used to the seasons being flipped, but here it was November and it was beautiful in Buenos Aires.  For just a moment she thought about how it usually got brisk around this time of year in Virginia.  

                Clarice saw the familiar shape of Dr. Lecter half a block away.  Her lips curved into a smile around her mug.  Despite the season, he wore an overcoat and a fedora.  She had to chuckle.  In his own way he could be perfectly vain.  She noticed a paper cone cradled in his left arm with a brilliant splotch of red poking out of them. A dozen roses.  He'd remembered.  It had been eight years ago that they'd come down here.  Together. 

                She raised her finger and called for the waiter.  When he came, she asked him for a second cappuccino.   He'd appreciate it.  The waiter nodded, and with a _sì,señora _ran to fetch it.  Clarice turned back to watch her husband walking down the sidewalk towards her.  She sighed and smoothed down the airy fabric of her dress.  Such a perfect day, such a beautiful day, to be here with the man she loved.  She watched him draw nearer.  

                She was enchanted with him.  Here in Buenos Aires, she had found a peace she never thought possible in her old life.  Dancing on the terrace, fine dinners, beautiful clothes.  She didn't have to work; she could study whatever interested her.  Here, her life was…perfect.  

                So she waited in the sun for her husband to come to her.  A real smile crossed her lips. He came to her, a dozen roses under his arm.  Her husband.  Her partner in this new, wonderful life.  

                The sight of Dr. Hannibal Lecter brought no fear.  At one time, she'd dreaded him as a dangerous, sadistic killer.  The years with him had taught her that she had nothing to fear from Hannibal Lecter.  Their lives held no fear.  Instead, it had been happy.  More than happy; joyful.  That was what she had been missing in her old life.  Joy.  And now she had it in abundance.  

                She allowed herself an indulgent moment to observe him as he strode towards her.  From a block away, she could see his face light in recognition.  He was so imperially slim and neat.  The overcoat and fedora lent him an air of mystery.  But she also knew the delicate features of his face.  The nose, only slightly enhanced by collagen.  His eyes, exquisitely detailed.  His mouth, hiding pearly white teeth.  She thought also of his fingers: slim and shapely.  The hands of an artist.  Once she'd wondered how he could use those hands to commit the atrocities he once had.  But now she'd put it out of her mind, as he had put such things behind him.  

                Yes, she thought, life was perfect.  She had him, and he had forsworn killing so that they could stay together unmolested.  She was more important to him, and the love behind that made her feel almost drunk.  He would not go away as her father had.  He would stay with her no matter what it took. 

                So she smiled softly as he approached her from down the block.  Soon he would sit at the table with her, and they would chat of inconsequential things.  A pleasant chat with the man she loved on a beautiful day.  This was as close as it got to heaven, Clarice thought.   

                Suddenly, misgivings twanged her stomach, a black streak of fear and uncertainty against what should have been a pure and rosy joy.  Something was amiss.  She found herself thinking of years ago, in her old life.  What was it?  Something had reminded her.  She blinked twice, and fumbled at her hip.  No gun there anymore; Clarice Starling had given up her gun along with her post fruitlessly guarding the lambs.  

                _Oh my God.  _

Behind Dr. Lecter, two figures which had been just ambling along suddenly picked up their pace.  They were not looking at each other, as animated Argentines might.  Nor were they simply looking ahead of them.  Their attentions were fixed on Dr. Lecter. He didn't notice them immediately.  His own instincts had been relaxed by the peaceful years in Buenos Aires.   Instead, he simply proceeded along the sidewalk, preparing to cross the street.  

                A dark blue car screeched to a halt in front of him.  For a moment Dr. Lecter simply looked consternated at it, frustrated by the rudeness of the driver.  Then people crowded out of the car, and he understood.  But it was too late and there were too many of them.  

                Clarice Starling stood up.  Horror threatened to root her to the spot.  She knew exactly what was about to happen.  Her jaw dropped open in sheer and perfect shock and pain.  Her wonderful, fairy-tale existence here in this city thousands of miles from her enemies had just come to an abrupt and shocking end.  

                Seven trained agents of the FBI piled onto Hannibal Lecter.  Strong as he was, not even he could overcome all of them.  Slowly, relentlessly, they grabbed his arms, forcing him over the hood of the car.  The bouquet of roses was ripped from his grip.  It tumbled slowly into the gutter, the paper cone torn.   In the melee, an agent's black-shoed foot stomped on it.  Torn rose petals fluttered in the wind and landed in the street.   One broken rose stuck out from the rest, broken just under the blossom.  It drooped sadly as if to acknowledge its defeat.    The image of the broken rose seared itself instantly into the walls of Clarice Starling's mind, where it would forever remain. 

Clarice stared at the roses and back to the man who had held them.  They had him down over the hood of the car.  Sheer force was on their side.  Like well-oiled machines they forced his hands behind his back and clamped his head down so that he could not bite.  She sucked in shaky breath. Didn't they realize what they were doing?  

                Slowly, Clarice Starling began to walk towards the scene, trying not to cry.  What would she do?  What _could _she do?  Here, in this paradise, she'd disarmed herself.  She'd thought she was safe here.  But in every paradise there are snakes, and now these snakes had come to destroy her Eden.  

                Dr. Lecter's eyes touched Clarice's for just a moment.  Then he let out a sigh, lowered his gaze, and shook his head imperceptibly.  She couldn't save him.  He was lost.  

                Clarice and Dr. Lecter had discussed what would happen in the event that one of them was captured.  It was simple.  If it was possible for the one to save the other, they should try.  If it wasn't, then the free one should flee without any guilt.  Yet she could not.  Dread and disbelief rooted her to the spot.  Even if one of them recognized her, she could not have fled if she tried.

                She saw the silver glint of handcuffs and heard them click around his wrists. Her heart pounded. They had put handcuffs on him?   The thought itself was nauseating.  One of them was talking calmly.  

                "Dr. Lecter, now listen to me, please.  This can go easy, or this can go hard.  It's up to you.  If you act like a gentleman, we'll treat you in kind.  If you try to bite, we've got a mask for you.  Also, every single agent here has pepper spray and a Taser.  If you try to fight us, you _will _lose."  

                A single tear slipped down Clarice Starling's cheek.  

                "You didn't read me my rights," Dr. Lecter observed.  

                "That's right.  Someone you may remember wants to talk to you." The agent turned, and for just a moment Clarice thought he was looking at her.

"Agent Starling, would you like to do the honors?" the tall, rangy man called out.    _Her?  _Could he possibly be serious? The world seemed to wheel crazily around her.  She felt dizzy and suddenly wondered if she would faint. 

 _This can't be happening, _Clarice thought.  _Dear God, this is a nightmare and soon I'll wake up, please let me wake up! Please don't let them take him away! _But God ignored her pleas as he had ignored a long-ago six-year-old's plea to see his sister again.  No celestial hand came to deliver Dr. Lecter from his enemies.  

In front of Clarice, a young woman slipped out from behind a baroque lamppost.  She wore a battered pair of BDU pants and a denim shirt.  In the pocket of her denim shirt was a leather case, folded back to reveal her ID.  Clarice froze.  The woman hadn't seen her and didn't seem interested in her.  Her sole attention was focused on the man pinned to the hood of the car.  In her hands she had a pistol.  In her small hands it seemed absurdly large.    A .45 Colt automatic, with a piece of skate tape on the grip.  Clarice recognized the gun with no surprise at all.  It had once been hers, although she hadn't seen it since the night Dr. Lecter had saved her life eight years ago.  She'd left it on a factory room floor many years ago.  She stared uncomprehendingly at the back of the younger woman's head.  Her hair was similar in color to Clarice's.  But where Clarice's hair was straight, this woman's hair was in soft curls.    

                Dr. Lecter's eyes shifted from Clarice to the woman in front of her.  He let out a tremendous sigh and mouthed one word.  He seemed resigned to his fate.  Clarice understood immediately.

                _Charlene.  _

Special Agent Charlene Stenson Starling, twenty-three years old, approached Hannibal Lecter slowly.  Even though he was already handcuffed and held down by five burly men, she kept the gun aimed straight at him.  Her eyes raked slowly back and forth over the boogeyman whose face had haunted her for the past eight years.  For the past year, she'd spent countless hours tracking him.  Hundred-hour weeks spent in the office, running down leads, verifying and eliminating possibilities.  Capturing Hannibal Lecter had become her life.  And finally, all her hard work had paid off.  As her aunt had once before, she'd been able to track him by his tastes and pinpoint him here to Buenos Aires.  He'd ordered a few bottles of Chateau d'Yquem from Clarice Starling's birth year, with a specified delivery date.  Eight years ago on that date, he had carried a wounded and bloody Clarice Starling from a factory in Virginia.  With Charlene helplessly watching him take her away.  

                "Dr. Lecter," she said, her voice hard and uneven.    Then she cleared her throat.  Behind her, Clarice turned pale.  She'd always dreaded this.  Words that she'd only heard in her worst nightmares touched her ears.  Part of her wanted to grab her niece and tell her what a mistake she was making.   But her mind was wrapped in a shroud of horror now, and she could barely even move, let alone attack her husband's assailants.  

                "Dr. Hannibal Lecter, I'm Special Agent Charlene Starling.  You're under arrest.  You have the right to remain silent.  If you give up this right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.  You have the right to an attorney, and to have that attorney present during questioning.  Do you understand your rights as I have read them to you?"

  Her voice seemed to float in and out of Clarice's consciousness.  For one horrible moment, she thought Charlene had identified herself as _Agent Clarice Starling.  _She might have preferred it if she had; then this _would _have been a nightmare that she might have woken up from.  But it was horrible, mind-numbing reality.  There would be no escape to consciousness in her own bed, safe with Dr. Lecter beside her.  

Dr. Lecter had been captured after all these years.  And her own niece had been responsible.  

                Hannibal Lecter sighed in resignation.  "Yes, Charlene, I do," he said.  "My, you've grown.  Hardly the weepy, terrified, half-naked adolescent I found shivering outside a deserted factory.    May I know what the charge is, please?  I do have the right to know."  

                Charlene's eyes narrowed.  Her throat hitched.  "Of course, Dr. Lecter," she said tonelessly.  The charges," she began, and stopped.  Tears rose to her eyes.  Then she set her jaw grimly and stared him down.   Years of pain in her eyes gave her a strength Dr. Lecter had not expected and he looked away.

                "Dr. Lecter, the charges against you are kidnapping and capital murder," she began.  "Specifically,--,"  she stopped again.   Her hand tightened down on the gun's grip and she dropped it to the ground as if afraid she might lose control and shoot him.  

                "Specifically, the kidnapping and murder of a federal officer.  Special Agent Clarice M. Starling."

                Charlene trembled and bit her lip to steel herself.  The legalities were done.  Now she could speak to him from her own heart.  And she had only one thing to say to him. As she spoke her voice picked up its usual drawl as her emotional control began to fray.

                "You killed my aunt, Dr. Lecter," she said coldly.  "Now you're going to pay."    She glanced at the tall agent, who nodded at her approvingly.   Mr. Crawford would also be pleased with her.  She watched them stuff Dr. Lecter in the back of the patrol car and stared at him through the prisoner screen for several moments.  There was nothing resembling sympathy or warmth in her face.  

                She didn't notice the older woman behind her finally turn and flee, sobbing.


	2. Deja Vu

                _Author's note:  Here we are, Chapter 2.  What song is playing through MorbidAngel's head?  'John Deere Green', by Joe Diffie.  Perhaps I'll introduce a character named Billy Bob, but we'll have to see.  For now, let's drop in on the GD as he accustoms himself to his new circumstances.  _

The prison cell was easily the foulest Dr. Lecter had ever been forced to inhabit.  It was a tiny room, located in the basement of the prison.  Just as in the asylum, Dr. Lecter was below ground.  His cell did contain a tiny window.  His view was only of the prison's exercise yard, and it was blocked with black steel bars as thick as his wrist.  Occasionally he could catch a glimpse of booted feet near his window.  That was all.  Other prisoners had been warned to keep away from him.  

                The rest of the cell was absolutely subpar, he decided.  It was five feet by nine feet.  The bed was a wooden table with a dirty straw mat atop it.  It sat loose on the table.  Only the most charitable could call it a mattress, and Dr. Lecter was not feeling terribly charitable.  In one corner was a dirty steel sink.  Dr. Lecter supposed he ought to be grateful for that, but he found himself unable to gather much gratitude.  This was partially because the cell did not have a toilet.  Instead, it sported only a hole in the corner.   The cell reeked. He'd asked for cleaning supplies but they had refused to give him any.  Whether this was because they were singling him out or because they simply didn't give prisoners the supplies they needed to keep clean was not clear.  Dr. Lecter had tried to be as fastidious as he could, but prior occupants had not shared his neatness.  The odor was enough to make it hard to sleep, as if the uncomfortable mat didn't do enough to accomplish that.  

                Other than that, there was nothing.  No chair, no table.  Dr. Lecter had never once thought he would miss the cell he had once occupied back in the asylum.  But that had been a palace compared to this.  At least there he had been the only occupant in the cell.  Now, he was obliged to share these meager quarters with rats.  They crawled squeaking into holes in the walls too small for him.  His first night in the cell he'd had to sleep with the wool army-issue blanket over his face, lest the rats bite his face while he slept.  

                No Plexiglass walls that let him see out here.  His walls were solid concrete and filthy.  The door was heavy and metal and almost invariably locked.  There was a heavy metal grille in the door.  A thumb switch on the other side of the door operated the louvers of the grille.  When it was open Dr. Lecter could see a faint piece of the hall.   The bottom half of the door contained a food slot through which the doctor's meals were put.  

                The guards had mostly left him to his own devices.   They came neither to help nor hinder.  Occasionally they let him out for some exercise on a fenced-in yard.   He was here, alone again.  He had been ripped from his Clarice.  Whether or not he would ever see her again was in doubt.  She hadn't been here to visit him, but he didn't hold that against her.  It was too dangerous.    

                Dr. Lecter lay on his bunk with his eyes closed.   He found himself thinking of his home.  The soft bed, the wide-open spaces and rooms of the mansion, and Clarice.  He let his mind play over the soft feel of her skin, the smell of her perfume.  The way her blue eyes gleamed at him when she was happy.  How she smiled.   He sighed heavily.  All memory now.  He couldn't expect her to risk her own neck for him.  He knew what awaited him.  If she fell into the hands of the FBI, she could expect a fate only scantly better.  Jack Crawford did not treat traitors kindly.  

                He would never see her again.  

He knew that and accepted it, even though it tore at him.  Better that his little Starling remained free.  _Fly away, little starling, fly, fly, fly.  _

                Dr. Lecter sighed as he heard footsteps coming down the hall.  He heard a man's voice and a woman's.  Whatever the woman was wearing, it wasn't formal women's shoes.  There was no loud clack of heel against concrete.  He found himself thinking of the last time he'd taken Clarice to the opera and forced himself to abandon the memory.  

                The gate rattled as a guard opened it.  Dr. Lecter heard the soft tread of a pair of black Skechers approach down the hall.  Then the mechanical click and rattle of the louvers on his grille.  Staring in at him, her face outlined by the grille, was Charlene Stenson Starling.  Her mien was unsympathetic as she gazed in his cell.  Dr. Lecter slid off his bunk and stood.  Now _this _was ironic.  

                "Hello, Charlene," he said calmly.  

                "Dr. Lecter," she returned emotionlessly.  Dr. Lecter took the time to study her face.  Rather like Clarice's, he thought, and determined not to heave a sigh.  But instead of the underlying sense of peace and joy that he'd seen in Clarice's face for these past eight years, he could sense pain in Charlene's features.  She was hiding it under a veneer of toughness and distance that Dr. Lecter found familiar and quite liked.  Seeing it here, on a woman who clearly despised him, was bittersweet.  

                "I suppose I should tip my hat to you," Dr. Lecter continued.  "You caught me.  Excellent work, really.  Do you know how many agents have tried and failed?"  

                "Thank you," she said distantly.    

                "Even Clarice never caught me," Dr. Lecter said.  He saw Charlene's pupils darken and contract.  There it was.  He took a single sip of her pain and decided that would be all for today.  

                "Yes," Charlene said coldly.  "And you killed her.  Dr. Lecter, I didn't come here today to be tormented by you.  I came to ask you a few questions."  

                "I've retained attorneys, Agent Starling.  You should address your questions to them."    He thought, correctly, that she would appreciate the respect of distance.  

                "Well, your attorneys don't have an English speaker handy," she said.  "Besides, Dr. Lecter, only one is legal.  More of an offer.  If you waive extradition to the US, the FBI is willing to put you in a maximum-security prison in Indiana.  You'd have a view of the fields nearby.  It's not far from a treeline."  

                Dr. Lecter looked down.  She got right down to business, didn't she?  Well, it wasn't like he had much to trade.  She thought he had killed Clarice.  How hideously droll this was.  Even if he told her he had not killed Clarice, even if he _proved _he had not killed Clarice, it would not save him from prison.   All he would accomplish by doing that would be to get Clarice in their clutches.  

                "And if I refuse?"  

                She shrugged.  "That's fine with us, Dr. Lecter.  The Argentine government is going to keep you incarcerated pending your extradition.  They want more IMF loans, and they want the US happy with them.  And they don't want any new entries for _Canibalismo _in their own crime files. You're _not _getting out of that cell, you know."  She smiled bitterly.  "If you want to spend the next couple months in there and have some quality time with Br'er Rat, then be my guest.  We made you the offer for two reasons.  First off, American prisons may not be fun, but they're better than here and you don't have your four-footed cellmate there.  Generally.  Secondly, Dr. Lecter, when you lose your extradition hearing – and you _will _lose, I assure you of that – the FBI will take into account your history of escape and dangerousness.  Do you know what that means?"  

                Dr. Lecter shook his head and seemed interested.  

                "It means for the time being, you'll be looking at USP Florence, in Florence, Colorado," she explained.  "Supermax.  You'll never see or hear another prisoner, except for maybe, _maybe _you'll catch a glimpse when you're being recreated.  Access to visitors is almost nil.  Oh, and you'd be permitted only a few books in your cell.  They're planning to charge you in Virginia, you know." She sighed heavily.  "So that means either Wallens Ridge or Red Onion.  Both of those are supermax prisons too.  Virginia state prisons.  There have been complaints of abusive guards there, you know.  Abuse of force, tasers, extreme use of restraint.  Amnesty International complains about it all the time.  Hardly the place for an older man."  She eyed the doctor, in his late sixties, with an appraising eye.  

                "So if I don't give up my legal rights I'll be tortured for it." 

                "The authorities do not owe you leniency, Dr. Lecter," she riposted.  "The first time you went down, well, things were pretty liberal then.  Not any more.  Prisoners' rights have taken a big-time back seat, Dr. Lecter.  I don't think you really understand how much things have changed, Dr. Lecter, and I'm not saying that to be disrespectful.   It's an entire mindset change and you've been out of the country for a while now.  They'll throw you in supermax and then forget all about you until your trial."  

                Dr. Lecter did, and that was the problem.  Should he accept that offer?  It would be better, long-term.  And he had little doubt his Argentine attorneys could keep him here.   Or was there something he hadn't thought of yet?  

                "That offer should have been addressed to my attorneys," he repeated.  

                 "I'll see that they're notified," Charlene answered.   "But think about it, Dr. Lecter.  It _is _to your own benefit."  

                "Thank you.  I shall."   

                Their first point of business had been dealt with.  Charlene cleared her throat.  "I'm also curious what you might be willing to tell us about Clara Paloma," she began.  

                Dr. Lecter was quite surprised to hear that name pass Charlene's lips.  Had she known?  Did she know?  He studied her carefully.  

                "My wife," was all he said.  His face betrayed no surprise.  He put his hands behind his back and drew himself up carefully.  

                "Yes," Charlene said.  "We've got an APB out on her.  We expect to have her in custody shortly.  She can't run forever."  

                _Care to wager on that, little girl?  _Dr. Lecter thought.  But no, that wasn't right.  It occurred to him that Charlene was about the age Clarice had been when she first came to his cell.  Although Charlene carried no bag and he couldn't see her shoes through the grille.  

                "Did she know who you are, Dr. Lecter?  Look, I can tell you that the Argentine authorities are likely to do what we want 'em to do.  If she didn't know, then tell me now.  Save your wife some pain."  

                Dr. Lecter studied Charlene carefully as she spoke.  He only dedicated a small part of his mind to paying attention to her words.  Clarice could hide.  It was entirely possible that she would evade Charlene and her team.  He was more interested in Charlene's behavior.  After analyzing it for a moment, his rare mind turned out the answer.  

                Charlene did not know Clara Paloma was Clarice Starling.   

                That was good and bad.  Naturally, it would have been preferable for the FBI to not know of her existence at all.  But that was not always possible.  Fortunately, Clarice had several identities available.  As long as she had gotten away from the scene, it was entirely possible that she might remain free.  If she was smart, she was in Brazil right now.  

                Dr. Lecter heaved a mighty sigh.  He could not give this woman anything to go on.  But he was also relatively confident that he could tell Charlene what she wanted to hear.  Something that would allow her to convince herself that he was pure evil, determined solely to gain his own advantage.  

                "No," Dr. Lecter said.  "She did not."  

                "Do you know where she is, Dr. Lecter?"  

                "Of course not.  I'm in this cell.  I presume you have already searched my residence," Dr. Lecter parried.  

                Charlene nodded.  

                "Well," she said, "if that's your story, then I guess I'll leave you in peace."  

                "It is, Charlene," he said.  

                She turned to leave and took a few steps away.  

                "I'd like to ask you something, if I may," Dr. Lecter said, internally grinning as she arrested herself and turned around awkwardly.  "Something I asked your aunt, once, when she came to my cell."  

                He saw her lips turn pale for a moment, but she covered it quickly.  Good, good.  It seemed having the onions to carry on ran in Starling veins.  He had to at least credit her as a worthy adversary.

                "What do you want, Dr. Lecter?" she asked, her voice choking.  

                Dr. Lecter pulled in a deep breath and eyed the woman through the grille of his door.  He let two or three beats pass before speaking.  Yes, even though he was in this miserable cell, he was in control here and she was not.  Perhaps – just perhaps – he could twist this to his advantage.  

                "Tell me, Charlene," Dr. Lecter asked casually, "how do you manage your rage?" 

                She started forward then and smacked the door of his cell.  Her features twisted in the very rage he knew was roaring in her constantly.  The same rage that had allowed her to do what no one since Will Graham had done –capture him.  

                The metal louvers of his grille rasped down, barring any further view of the outside.  He heard her take a few running steps and then stop.  Then her footsteps began again.  He suspected she was forcing herself to walk slowly.  Ah well, a man needed his fun, and he had precious little here.  

                Dr. Hannibal Lecter lay back on the filthy mattress and listened to the rats squeak in the walls.  He wondered if she would be back.  Despite himself, he hoped she would.  


	3. Secondary Objective

                Charlene's hotel room was much nicer than the cell Hannibal Lecter currently occupied.  That was something.  For one thing, she had air conditioning and a toilet.  For another, she could leave whenever she wanted.  But the room seemed cell-like, anyway.  She didn't like Argentina.  Mostly, she supposed, it was because Dr. Hannibal Lecter had been free in it for eight years, going where he wanted with some bimbo on his arm while her aunt Clarice was dead in an unmarked grave somewhere.  Or eaten.  

                Besides, everything she'd spent a year planning had now come to a head.  Jack Crawford was quite happy with her.  She had done something no one had done since before she was born:  capture Hannibal Lecter.  At this point, her future was as bright as it got.  Mr. Crawford might be able to get her into Behavioral Sciences for real now.  

                She ought to be happy.  She was Crawford's shining star.  Dr. Lecter had been captured and would pay for the murder of Clarice Starling.  They were going to try him in Virginia.  Crawford had explained it to her.  Virginia had tough juries and rules tilted in the prosecution's favor.  Dr. Lecter would likely end up on death row for his crimes.  

                But she _wasn't.  _The mid-price hotel room in Buenos Aires was insufferable.  So she grabbed her bathing suit and headed down to the hotel's swimming pool.  Once there, she stared into the chlorinated depths.  No more swimming pools for Dr. Lecter, that was for sure.  Knowing that, she plunged into the water and swam busily back and forth, her muscled legs propelling her through the water.  She wasn't sure how long she spent in there.  Back and forth, her body knifed through the water until she reached the concrete edge of the pool.  Then she turned around and swam back to the opposite wall.  Again and again, until her muscles were exhausted.  But the angry energy remained, fueling her from a seemingly inexhaustible source.  

                "Starling."  That made her head bob up and she swam to the shallow end of the pool where she could stand.  When she did, her eyes widened.  Ten feet away from the edge of the pool stooped an older man.  He observed her carefully.  Charlene suddenly felt embarrassed.  

                "Mr. Crawford!" she said.  "I didn't know you were here."    

                "I flew down last night," he said.  "Checked in and collapsed.  Caught you in the pool, did I?" he grinned.  

                "Well, yes, sir," she admitted, as if she wasn't supposed to be here.  All the same, she didn't move to get out of the water.  The idea of Jack Crawford checking her out in her bathing suit made her uncomfortable, even though her suit was perfectly modest.  

                "Well, here," he said, and picked up a towel.  "I need you to saddle up.  We just got a squeal on a secondary objective of the Lecter op."  

                Charlene sloshed out of the pool and accepted the towel, feeling oddly naked under Crawford's level gaze.  She wrapped herself in the towel and felt more shielded.  

                "Okay," she said cautiously.  "I'll just need a minute to get changed.  Secondary objective?  What's going on?"  

                Crawford sighed.  "Well," he said, "we've found Clara Paloma.  We've got the place staked out and we're going to take her in." His face tensed and she looked at him curiously.  Why would bringing in Dr. Lecter's wife cause him pain?  She was just some South American babe he'd picked up somewhere.  

                Charlene nodded.  "Give me ten minutes to get changed and I'll be ready," she said.  "Where is the strike team meeting?"  

                "Agent Thompson's suite," he said.  He seemed to be cautious, as if he was holding something back.    She eyed him curiously.   Maybe he was just uncomfortable with being around her in her bathing suit.  

                "OK, sir," she said.  "I'll be there as soon as I can."  

                He cleared his throat.  "Starling," he said, "look.  You did great work bringing Dr. Lecter in.  Don't let anyone take that away from you.  I'm proud of you."  

                Even dripping wet and wearing a towel, Charlene found herself brightening under the praise.  "Thank you, sir," she said.  Then she vanished upstairs to the elevator in order to make it back to her room and change.   Vanity was almost alien to Charlene's way of thinking. After running a brush through her wet hair, putting on her pants and boots, and holstering her .45, she was ready.  Her only concession to being female was long hair, and she tied it back in a ponytail before heading down the hall to Thompson's suite.  

                The meeting was already underway.  Charlene's lips twisted.  She _hated _being late.  Crawford was standing in front of them like a professor.  He glanced at Charlene emotionlessly.  He didn't seem angry.  

                "OK, people," he said.  "We're not going to waste time.  Let's get Clara Paloma in custody."  

                Charlene Starling felt a sudden misgiving.   Was she in trouble?  She didn't want to look like the golden girl, slacking off in her success.  Oddly, none of the other agents seemed to hold it against her.  They simply nodded at her as they walked past.  

                She waited so she could fall into step with Crawford and Thompson, who was the field commander of the team.  

                "Sirs," she said urgently.  "I am _so _sorry for missing this meeting.  I had no idea." 

                Thompson was the team commander.  Like everyone else on the team, including Charlene herself,  Jack Crawford had handpicked him for the arrest of Hannibal Lecter.  He shot a brief glance at the older man before answering.  

                "That's all right, Starling," he said.   

                "No, really," she said.  

                Crawford took over. "Starling," he said calmly, "it's all right."  

                "Look," Charlene offered, "if you want, I can actually take Clara Paloma into custody.  Might head off a sexual discrimination case at the outside."  

                The two men traded a glance.  Charlene tilted her head and stared curiously at them.   More misgivings probed her stomach now.  She had the distinct feeling she wasn't making the grade here.  And what the hell was all this about, anyway?  It didn't make any sense.  She was good enough to track down Hannibal Lecter.  Why in God's name were they being coy about having her on the team to arrest Clara Paloma?  Charlene hadn't been able to find out much about her, but she had her ideas.  Probably a pretty but vacuous piece of fluff who the good doctor would be able to hang off his arm at his parties and opera and all that stuff he liked.  She would happily wear stiletto heels and party dresses and all that froufrou girly crap.   Well, wait.  Dr. Lecter had refused to cough up any information on her.  Maybe he thought she would get away.  Maybe she was brighter than Charlene thought.

                "It's being handled, Starling," Thompson said.  "Just stay back.  We may need you on this one."  

                She could feel the barrier between her and the others swinging slowly shut.  What was worse that she had no idea why this was happening.  She hadn't messed up.  As she had gotten closer to pinpointing her prey, she'd worked around the clock.  Hannibal Lecter knew his own schedule only slightly better than Charlene did.  

                "Sirs, _please.  _Have I done something wrong here?"  

                Jack Crawford's gnarled hand came out to pat her shoulder paternally.  "Actually, Starling, it's more of a reward.   I know how hard you've worked.  This is a small detail, really.  So you're just along for the ride.  The other agents can take care of it.  The way I see it, you've done your job, so you get to sit this one out.  It's not punishment.  If I had a problem with you, you'd know it." 

                Charlene Stenson Starling fell into step behind the nominal commander of the team and the actual commander.  Crawford's words were quite comforting.  But even as she got into the vans and headed out with the rest of the team to capture Clara Paloma, she was not quite convinced.  She was a good investigator.  And she knew something was up.  

                Jack Crawford was hiding something.

                …

                The Retiro train station was an excellent place to get lost in.  It was Buenos Aires's main train station.  Built in the European style, sprawling and baroque, it was almost always thronged with travelers.  One woman in a dress with a single suitcase barely attracted any notice.  And that was just how Clarice liked it.  

                The loss of Dr. Lecter still hurt as badly as it had when she'd seen him marched away by the FBI.  In fact, Clarice thought, it was worse than her father's death.  Dr. Lecter had freed her from a life that promised only pain and given her one that contained so much joy.  To add insult to injury, it was her own flesh and blood that had taken it from her.  Damn Charlene anyway!  Had Crawford gotten to her?  He must have.  He'd probably gotten her to work endless hours in hopes of a payoff he always kept juuuuust a bit too far away to grab at.  Clarice knew.  He'd done it to her for years. 

                Well, now she knew where she stood.  She'd wondered sometimes what had happened to Charlene.  Now she'd gotten her answer and boy it was a doozy.  She had to flee.  She knew that.  Even though the image of Dr. Lecter in handcuffs was burned into her mind, she knew she had to get away.  If she went in to try and save him now, she would only get caught herself.  The evening news had said Dr. Lecter was being held in one of the most secure prisons in the city.  

                It was a horrible choice.  She couldn't get him out of here.  But if they took him to America, she'd stand zero chance of getting him back.  They'd throw him in one of those new supermax prisons and she'd never see him again.  The thought made her eyes well with tears.  

                No.  Wait.  They had to extradite him.  There was her chance.  That would take a few months; he had good attorneys and they would plead that he would face the death penalty and therefore could not be extradited back.  There was her slot in.  For now, she had to get to Brazil.  She'd need to get some papers and a gun.  Once they brought him in to court for a hearing, go on in, crash boom bang, a few dead guards but she would have him back.  She didn't like the idea of killing law enforcement officers.  She had enough of her old life to dislike that.  But Dr. Lecter had explained to her his rationale in his escape from Memphis.  He had thought the guards who held him to be reasonably civil, but there simply was no other way to be free.  So it would be again.  

                What if Charlene was there? Would she shoot Charlene?  Right now she was angry enough at her niece to do so.  Even so, she was almost positive that Charlene had been Crawford's pawn just as she once had.  No, she would cross that bridge when she came to it, but she would seek to spare her niece's life.  

                Clarice boarded the train and tipped the porter to bring her bag down to her private compartment.  She would have her own bed and bathroom for her trip to São Paolo.  She closed the door and locked it before settling down on the bed with a mighty sigh.  

                Could she get a fake Argentine police uniform in Brazil?  Probably.  She closed her eyes and consulted her memory palace for a moment.   There were the addresses of forgers and middlemen there.  They could have gotten Clarice anything she wanted for a price.  And she had the money.  

                If there was one thing she didn't like about Argentina, it was the fact that womens' rights were a hundred years behind the times.  A few people had stared at her, trying to figure out if she was single or not.  As if the diamond Dr. Lecter had given her didn't tip them off, _helloooo.  _

Some garbled voice came from the speaker overhead.  A train whistle blew.  The train began to chug out of the train station.  Clarice sighed and lay down on the bed.  She was away and safe.  That was all that mattered.  Once she had a base in Brazil, she could set about doing what she needed to do to get Dr. Lecter out.  

                She was quite tired, as she had been running for thirty-six hours without sleep.  Once Dr. Lecter had been captured, she'd taken a taxi back to the house to see if she could get anything from it.  Nope; uniformed cops had surrounded the place.  Off to the safe house in working-class Buenos Aires, where she'd gotten the suitcase, cash, and identity paperwork that they'd stashed there.  She'd stayed in the safe house overnight, but hadn't been able to sleep.  No, she'd stayed totally awake.  

                The compartment was quite anonymous and modern.  Clarice thought about getting a soda or some coffee to keep awake.  No, she needed sleep.    So she shot the bolt on the door and laid down on the bed.  The chugging of the train was quite soothing.  The bed was wonderfully comfortable.  Clarice Starling's eyes closed as the train went forward.        

                When she awoke, she didn't know how much time had passed.  She did know something had changed.  There was danger in the air.   Clarice did not know exactly why, but she automatically dove for her suitcase.  Charlene might have her original .45, but she had another one, and she pulled it out now.  

                A loud _bang _came from her door. Clarice recognized the sound.  That was no porter banging to ask for something.  That was 'Avon calling' – a twelve-gauge round of powdered lead.  It would blow just about any lock to smithereens without hurting anyone inside.  

                _Fuck fuck fuck, _Clarice Starling thought, and gripped her .45, planning to fight her last stand.  The door was not designed to withstand shotgun rounds and shuddered in its hinges before meekly opening as if acknowledging its tormentors had bested it.  

                Then there were people in the doorway, rushing in fast and low.  Clarice aimed the .45 at the one in front.  For a fraction of a second, she saw the agent's eyes widen.  He knew as well as she did that he was a big fat target in front of a very big gun.  All she had to do was fire.  

                But then something stopped her.  She knew this guy.  Tony Marshall.  He'd been a newbie when she was in the Bureau.  Some of her assignments in the ghetto had been with him – he because he was new, and she because Krendler had been merrily pissing in her file.  Decent guy, willing to learn, had a son and a daughter.  She'd had a pleasant working relationship with him.  

   Clarice's finger went limp on the trigger.  Killing him would accomplish nothing except create another orphan.  For a moment, the world wheeled and spun around her.  The thought of shooting someone else's daddy made nausea rise high in her throat.  She clamped her eyes shut and felt tears come.   Were they for her now, her in the past, or Dr. Lecter?  She didn't know.  

 But her foes were relentless in the here and the now.  They overwhelmed Clarice.  Bodies piled atop hers.  At this point, Clarice knew better than to fight it.  She let them put her on the bed and wrench her arms behind her back.  But anger and pain shot through her.  Hadn't they done enough?  Why wouldn't they leave her alone?  Hadn't she suffered enough?  

Her hands were cuffed behind her back and the men atop her rolled her over so that she could sit on the bed.  She sat there and exhaled a loud sigh of resignation from her nostrils.  Resolutely, she blinked away the tears.  Two figures appeared in the doorway.  Clarice set her jaw and stared them down firmly.  

One was a young woman she recognized almost instantly.  Curly brown hair instead of straight, but the resemblance was still there and still strong.  She stood five foot three inches, an inch shorter than Clarice.  Her face hadn't changed much, Clarice noticed.  But it was pinched and troubled.  

Charlene Stenson Starling stared across the small compartment at her aunt.  The color drained slowly out of her face.  Clarice watched her emotionlessly.  Her gun was out, muzzle depressed.  As shock overcame her, her lips paled and her lips made a perfect O of shock.  She stumbled into the compartment and sat down hard on the built-in bench.  Her hands began to jitter.  Blue eyes the same shade as Clarice's stared at her as if she'd seen a ghost.  That, Clarice supposed, was pretty close to the truth.  

For several long moments Charlene said nothing.  Then a squeak emitted from her open mouth.  Beads of sweat began to appear on her brow.  Clarice found herself feeling vaguely sympathetic.  If Charlene had leaned over and puked she wouldn't have been the least bit surprised.  Charlene set her pistol down next to her with a shaking hand.  

"Clara…p-p-Paloma," she said.  Her voice jig-jagged up and down in shock as she stuttered.  "_Paloma.  _D-dove."  Her body wracked with shock tremor as she made the final connection.  "S-s-st…," she swallowed.  "Starling."  

"That's me.  Hi, Charlene," Clarice said with no friendliness, leaning on the drawl.  "Happy with whatcha done here?"  

"But…but…no," Charlene whispered.  "I…you…I _saw…_this cain't be."  

"Fraid so, kiddo," Clarice said, and her voice began to break.  

Jack Crawford walked into the compartment from where he had stood behind Charlene.  Clarice's eyes narrowed at him instantly.  _He _seemed not at all surprised to see her.  Somehow, she just knew: he had ridden her niece to this position of victory.  Had he ridden her in other ways as well?  She'd blow his goddam brains out if he had. The man had no business with a girl who could've been his granddaughter.  

"Clarice," he said calmly, and sat down coolly next to her pale and staring niece.  He put a paternal hand on her shoulder.  If it had been within her power to do so, she would have killed him then and there.  

"Mr. Crawford," Clarice whispered acidly.  

"We're taking you back to the United States, Clarice," Crawford returned.  "We're going to make you better."   The agents holding her began to pull her to her feet.  

Clarice's eyes narrowed.  She didn't think Charlene was faking.  Girl looked about ready to keel over and die when you came right down to it.  Maybe that was something she could use.  

"Charlene," she said sharply.  

Charlene looked up at her, eyes still wide with shock, skin still the color of parchment.  Her mouth worked.  Tears glittered in her eyes.  

"I hope you're happy with yourself," Clarice said acidly.  She was angry, and her drawl deepened.  In the back of her mind she supposed it would hurt Charlene to hear it.  Right now she didn't care.  "I really, really do.  You done a job and a half. But ask yourself this on the plane ride home, kiddo. You don't look like you were expecting to see me."  

"Aunt Clarice," Charlene choked.  She let out something that might have been a sob.  

"Crawford knew, Charlene.  He knew I was here.  He knew I was alive. And he held that information back from you. You think about that, honey.  Think about it while you think of new ways to ruin my life."  

Clarice didn't know if it had registered or not.  She was already in shock.  Crawford simply eyed her from behind his hooded eyes.  Always keeping his cards close to his chest, always laying back in the tall grass.  An _eminence grise.  _He'd always been a gray man, blending into the woodwork, directing others from behind closed doors.  His pawn had taken her queen, and now it was checkmate.  

Then the agents behind her were wrestling her out of the compartment.  She knew she was outmatched and didn't try to resist.  She did glance back and saw her niece finally put her face in her hands and break down in hysterical tears.  Crawford patted her back calmly.  Clarice found herself wanting to retch.  She wasn't sure who she was angry with.  Right now it hardly seemed to matter.

Then they were dragging her down the hall, and she couldn't see them anymore.  


	4. Men in Her Life

                Dr. Lecter's cell was as drab and miserable as it had been before.  His attorneys had been in to see him earlier that morning and advised him that the extradition hearing would probably not be that hopeful.  Now that he had been positively identified as Hannibal Lecter, he was considered an illegal immigrant and it was more than likely that the Argentine authorities would return him to his country of origin. 

                He hadn't expected much more, really.  The FBI's offer was about as good as it would get.  His attorneys thought that he should strongly consider it.  But Dr. Lecter knew what awaited him in the United States.  

                He heard footsteps coming down the hall.  The same sound of Skechers heading down the hallway.  Was he the lucky recipient of another visit from Charlene?  He looked over at the grille.  Yes, he was.  

                She stared at him with wide eyes.  There seemed to be something broken about her.  Dr. Lecter was reminded of those patients he had treated who had just suffered some dramatic, unexpected loss.  There was something more here.  Something he liked very much.  

                After a moment, he had it.  One of his very favorite things.  The destruction of faith.   This might be interesting.  What had happened? Had Jacky-boy tried to hit on her?  Had they denied her credit for her capture of him?  He smiled at her and tilted his head.  

                "Hello, Charlene," he said.  

                Charlene blinked at him and her eyes focused in.  "Good morning, Dr. Lecter," she said tightly.  

                "Is this another business call or just a social visit?"  

                "A little of both," she said.  

                "Ah, good. I was _so _amused by your last visit.  Hearing you throw around terms like IMF loans and prisoners' rights, all in a desperate attempt to show me that you, too, are educated.  Not the frightened, weepy West Virginia girl you once were.   You've done well at hiding the accent, you know.  And your grammar's improved.  Did you finally begin paying attention in English class after the McCracken incident?  Or did it wait until college, when you wanted to be accepted and not considered poor white trash?"    

                Her eyes narrowed at him and she said nothing.  

                "And what else was it?  An entire mindset change, you warned me.  And you know, dear, you were right on that.  My attorneys have told me the same thing.  But it looks like you've had a bit of a mindset change yourself, Charlene.  You look somewhat shocked.  Has something happened?"  

                "Yes," Charlene said sharply.  

                "What was it?  Do tell me.  Did Jacky-boy Crawford try to harass you?  Did he get drunk and run his hands along your thighs?  Or did he grab your breasts?"  

                She chuckled and shook her head.  "Of course not," she said.  "Mr. Crawford's a decent man, Dr. Lecter."  

                "Do you think he wants you?"  

                "No, I don't," Charlene said.  Then she crossed her arms at him and flicked her head to the side.  Clarice did the same thing when she grew angry.   "Go ahead and make fun of me, Dr. Lecter.  It's fine.  Have your fun.  I'm going back to the United States in a few hours.  You're staying in here with the rats and the toilet.  So go right ahead.  Make fun of my accent or my background if it makes you feel better.  Get in your little digs now, Dr. Lecter.  Once you're in supermax, you'll have to curb that tongue of yours.  The guards won't put up with it."  

                "Is that a threat, Agent Starling?" he asked, speaking drolly to her as if she was a child.  

                "No," Charlene said.  "You know as well as I do if you run your mouth like that in prison they'll be selling your teeth on Ebay.  So you might as well get it out of your system now."  

                "I see.  Is that why you came, Charlene?  To advise me of the dire threat to my teeth in the American prison system?  Thank you.  I'll have my attorneys procure me a mouthguard."  

                She chuckled and shook her head.  "No," she said finally.  "I came to just let you know that we caught Clara Paloma.  I figured you would want to know."  

                Dr. Lecter was silent for a few moments.

                "Really," he said finally.  

                "Yes," Charlene said tightly.  

                "From the look on your face, you weren't expecting what you saw."  

                Charlene sighed and shook her head.  "No," she said.  

                 "You don't seem quite happy.  Tut-tut-tut."  He pursed his lips in mock sympathy.  His tone was sarcastic and mocking.  "Were you hoping for a big hug and a kiss from your auntie?  Did you think she'd tell you she loved you very much and you'd done a good job?"  He chuckled.  "No, no.  She's my wife now.  She wants no part of you."  Dr. Lecter closed his eyes and tried to remember what Clarice had told him of Charlene.  "She never did, actually.  She talked about it occasionally.  She always considered your mother nothing more than trailer-park white trash.  And you were just her illegitimate niece.  She was poor, but at least she knew who her real daddy was.  She moved up in the world, Charlene.  Up and away from you.  I told you not to meddle, little girl.  You should have listened.  It would have spared you pain."  

                She stared at him hatefully for a moment or two without speaking.   He could see her hands shake.   But like Clarice, she had the onions to carry on.  

                "You know," she said in a dusty tone, "when I found out about…," she paused, looking for the right word, "about…her…I actually almost felt sorry for you for a moment.  Everything was just perfect for you, wasn't it?   Now your life is about to take a pretty nasty turn over a crime you actually haven't committed.   Pretty ironic, don't you think?  Thank you, Dr. Lecter.  Thank you for reminding me just exactly why it is you're in there."  Her eyes glittered flatly at him.  

                "I hope you've had your fun, Dr. Lecter.  I really and truly do.  From here on out, you won't get the same opportunity.  If you talk to the guards like that wherever you end up, then I hope pain is something you enjoy.  And maybe what you've said is true.  Maybe those are her words.  Maybe they're yours.   We'll see.   But I can tell you this, Dr. Lecter.  She was voluntarily repatriated last night."  

                Charlene leaned in close to the grille on his window, as close as she dared.  

                "She could've stayed down here," Charlene hissed, "but she didn't.  We put her on a plane and brought her back to the US.  She _left you down here, Dr. Lecter.  We offered her help and she took it.  Never even so much as asked about you, by the way.  She's getting some help.  Whatever you did to her, we'll undo." _

                 Dr. Lecter watched her carefully.  She wasn't as good at controlling her rage as Clarice had been.  He found himself rather glad she had been obliged to leave her gun.  Otherwise, she might well have tried to kill him.  She looked angry enough.  

                "You're never going to see her again, Dr. Lecter. Your freedom is gone and so is Clarice.   You're going to live and die in a prison cell.  Enjoy those bars and that prison uniform.  They're your life now."  

                She slammed the grille shut, leaving him without even the ability to see out of his cell.  He could hear her footsteps receding from his cell in a fast run.  Dr. Lecter sat back on his grubby mat and sighed.  

                Clarice was in Jack Crawford's clutches.  This was not good.  Was Charlene telling the truth?  He couldn't tell, and it was doubtful she would talk to him now.  

                A rat squeaked at Dr. Lecter from where it stood in his corner.  Dr. Lecter looked at it and sighed again.  

                "I'm afraid things aren't going well," he told the rat.  

                …

                Charlene Stenson Starling stopped herself from running once she'd gotten out of the prison.  That _monster.  He had to be lying about Aunt Clarice.  She didn't think that way.  Why had she risked her life to save Charlene's?  No, the monster had messed up her head, forcing her to stay with him.  That was how it was.  That was how it __had to be.  _

                She drove back to the hotel and grabbed her suitcase from her room. A Crown Victoria was idling in front of the hotel door.  She carried her own suitcase, disdaining the bellboys.  No, this was her damn bag and she could carry it herself, thank you very much.  

                As she approached the car, the trunk popped open.  Charlene stowed her bag in the trunk and got in the back seat.  Jack Crawford sat there, eying her with his inevitably calm mien.  

                "Hi, Starling," he said calmly.  

                "Hello, sir," she said quietly. 

                "How did it go?"  

                "It went…all right," she said.  "He made fun of me, but I was expecting that."  

                Crawford nodded solemnly.  The Crown Vic slid into traffic.  The driver expertly maneuvered the car to the airport.  Silence reigned in the back seat. 

                "You did some a-plus work on this op," Crawford said after a few minutes.  "Everyone here knows that.  Including me."  

                "Thank you, sir," she whispered.  Then she steeled herself for a moment.  

                "Sir?"  she asked.  

                "What, Starling?"  

                "I was just curious…what she said when we got her…was that true?"  

                "That I knew?"  Crawford's eyes were hooded.  She could not read him.  

                "Yes," she said.  

                Crawford sighed.  "I suspected," he said delicately.  "I didn't have proof positive. The recon photos we took looked like her.  But  I didn't know for sure."  

                Was he lying?  Telling the truth?  She studied his face and could not tell.  

                "If I'd told you, Starling, you never would have been able to carry off your part the way you had," Crawford admonished.  "What if I'd told you and been wrong?  I had to do it this way."  

                "I know," she admitted.  "But still, sir…I guess I just would've liked to have been in on it, that's all."

                Crawford pondered for a moment before answering.  His gray gaze seemed to burn through her, as if suggesting she was disloyal for asking.   But Charlene could not feel guilty for feeling angry.  

                "Starling," he said finally, "I did what I had to.  Just imagine if it hadn't been her.  You'd have been devastated."  

                Devastated.  How different was that from how she felt now?  Knowing that Aunt Clarice had been alive.  All the time, she'd been down here, living it up with that…that…_monster.  Never once dropping a letter, never a thing to say __Charlene, I'm alive and I'm OK.  How could she have ignored Charlene like this?  Hadn't she known the long nights Charlene spent unable to sleep, remembering her kidnapping by one monster and her aunt's by another?  For years, the image of Clarice Starling being carried away naked and bloody by Hannibal Lecter to a horrible fate had been the driving force in Charlene's life.  It was that image that kept her going through college.  That image had kept her at the FBI, late at night, tapping away at a keyboard.  She'd tracked Dr. Lecter from half a world away.  _

                And now he wasn't guilty.  Dr. Lecter had not killed Clarice Starling.  For eight years, she had been living a lie.  

                "What's going to happen to her?"  Charlene asked.  

                "Well," Crawford said, "she's at a VA psychiatric hospital in Virginia."  

                A look of pain came over Charlene's face.  "My aunt's in the _loony bin?"  _

                Crawford gave her a stern look.  "Don't say that, Starling," he chided.  "They're going to help her.  God only knows what Dr. Lecter did to her mind.  They're going to get her straightened out."  

                Charlene nodded slowly.  "Which hospital?" she asked.  

                "Greenwood," Crawford said.  "And that's not for public consumption."  

                Charlene blinked.  "Greenwood?  That's maximum security," she objected.  

                "She may try to escape for now," Crawford said.  "It's just until we get her stabilized.  She needs a secure environment right now.  I know, she's your aunt and you're concerned about her."  

                Charlene let out a snort.  "Concerned ain't the word, Mr. Crawford," she said softly.  "Isn't, I mean.  I'm gonna see her once we get in."

                Crawford shook his head.  "That's not a good idea," he said calmly.  

                Charlene stared at him thunderstruck.  Her jaw dropped.  Crawford thought about how she resembled Clarice at the beginning of her career.  Those pleasing features, those blue eyes.  Couldn't tell much from the shapeless pants that she wore, but he thought she had a good body under that.  Then he made himself stop, remembering that he was still her boss.  Better not to go there.    

                "What do you mean, I can't see her?" Charlene said heatedly.  "She's my _aunt.  She needs me now."   _

                "She needs to settle in," Crawford advised.  "Give her a couple of weeks or a month to get adjusted.  Look, Starling.  I know you care.  But just listen to the experts on this."  

                _Like hell, Charlene thought, but didn't argue with him.  _

                On the plane, she sat and thought.  She didn't speak to Crawford.  She accepted a can of Coke and a horrible airline dinner and thought.  

                Dr. Lecter in his cell, innocent of Clarice's murder but guilty of annihilating her mind and personality.  Even if they didn't get him for murdering Aunt Clarice, there were plenty of people he _had killed that they could pinch him on proper.  Wasn't nothing unfair about that.   The man should've left her aunt alone._

  Aunt Clarice in the nut hatch.  Did she hate her now?  No, that was just Dr. Lecter talking.  He was just blowing off steam.  The man was just peeved because he'd underestimated her and she'd landed him in a cell.   The thought of Aunt Clarice in a padded cell, maybe wrapped up in a straitjacket, gave Charlene the heebie-jeebies.  She was a good person.  She didn't deserve that.  Charlene would stand by her, help her build herself back up.  And solve whatever damage Dr. Lecter had done to her brain.

                But where did that leave her?   And why did she suddenly distrust Jack Crawford?  He'd helped her career immeasurably.  Most of her classmates in the Academy were working either the one-horse towns or the nastiest ghettos.  She had a cube at Quantico and was TDY to Behavioral Sciences.  But now Crawford didn't seem like the proud father figure he'd once been.  For some reason she didn't trust him.  

                Crawford patted her hand as the plane arrowed north.  She smiled at him and it felt false.  She would call Greenwood tomorrow, she decided.  Then she would see Aunt Clarice.  


	5. Visitation

                The Mustang boomed along the highway.  It hunkered over its wheels like a crouching cat ready to pounce.  It was twenty years old, but exceptionally well maintained.  Its current owner kept it in near-showroom condition for the sake of its prior owner.  Aerosmith's 'Permanent Vacation' boomed from the speakers.  It was doing well over the posted speed limit, but the driver was unconcerned.  Her FBI identification had spared her tickets in the past.    

                Ahead was the exit.  Charlene consulted the directions she had pulled off Mapblast and dropped the Mustang into a lower gear as she got into the right lane.  Straight shot to the exit.  She pressed the accelerator.  The car, lovingly re-engineered with performance parts by the engineers at Roush, blew forward with a surge of power.  The needle crept up to eighty quickly enough to please her and the exit grew closer.  She grinned humorlessly at her reflection in the mirror.  

                She drove down the main road, drumming her hands on the wheel nervously.  Up two streets, then right.  Then she was on a secondary road that stretched for miles into the clean green countryside.  Nothing but verdant green fields and the occasional red barn or silo stretched for miles.  Charlene found herself thinking of the rural West Virginia town in which she had grown up.  

                Then there it was, the squat concrete buildings of the psychiatric hospital reaching up overhead.  Cyclone fencing separated it from the land of the sane.   A sign outside announced this to be GREENWOOD PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL, A VETERANS ADMINISTRATION FACILITY.  It gave Charlene the creeps.  Yet the place looked somehow normal.  Take away the fences and concertina wire and it could have been a college or something.  But it wasn't.  It was an asylum.  Crazy people were kept here so that they couldn't hurt other people.  This was a VA hospital, so all of the inmates – _patients, _Charlene admonished herself, they were _patients _– had served the United States at some time or another in their lives.  As she was doing now.  As her aunt had done before her.  Like the others, Clarice's reward had been to end up here.  

 Charlene pulled in at the gate and stopped to eye the gate guard.  The guard lifted a clipboard and gave her an appraising look.  Charlene fumbled out her ID and flashed it.   She was tense and it showed.   It had been a few days since she had gotten back.  Mr. Crawford had told to wait, but she couldn't.  Staring at her apartment walls and wondering what in God's name had been going on with Aunt Clarice had driven her crazy.  

                "FBI, Special Agent Starling," she said.  "I should be on the list."  

                The guard consulted his clipboard again.  "OK," he said.  "Visitor parking is up ahead.  Follow the signs."  He pressed a button and the gate rolled back with a loud buzz.  Charlene moved on deeper to where her aunt was being held.  

                She parked the Mustang in the visitors' lot.  Ahead was a building marked ADMISSIONS.  A smaller sign informed her that ALL VISITORS MUST REGISTER WITH ADMINISTRATION.  Obedient to the rules as always, she entered through the double doors and flashed her ID at the receptionist.  

Again, she identified herself.  

                "Oh, yes," the receptionist said, betraying only slightly more interest than the gate guard had.  "You'll need to see Dr. McQuerry first.  That's her psychiatrist."  

                Charlene frowned.  "I thought Dr. McQuerry was the hospital administrator," she said.  

                "He is.  He's taken a special interest in Miss Starling's case.  Have a seat there and I'll page him."  

                Charlene sat and waited.  The place didn't seem anything special.  Faded linoleum, fluorescent lights that buzzed incessantly, and gray walls.  On the other hand, it didn't seem like a place that was particularly sad.  There was no trace of the misery she'd expected. It wasn't _that _bad.  Just…not fancy.  And that was fine.  She'd done without fancy most all her life, hadn't she?   Maybe this was a place where Aunt Clarice could heal.  

                She sat back and waited.  The receptionist smiled a big plastic smile at her occasionally.  She found herself wondering if she would have to leave her gun before she could meet Aunt Clarice.  Probably she would – this _was _a maximum-security psychiatric facility.  They wouldn't want loonies running around with purloined pistols.  

                And here was where they were holding Aunt Clarice.  _No, _she told herself, **_helping _**_Aunt Clarice.  They're gonna make her better here.  _Aunt Clarice would have some troubles adjusting, sure.  Hannibal Lecter had controlled her mind for so freakin' long.  That would take time.  But eventually she would come back and be well.  Things would be set right again. 

                An older man walked up to her.  He wore a cheap gray suit with a lab coat over it.  His tie was striped blue polyester.  His shoes squeaked.  Charlene glanced down at them.  Twenty-dollar Payless wing tips.  An inexpensive sweater was under the jacket.  His hair was a mass of wild clocksprings of gray curls.  He adjusted a set of inexpensive horn rims and smiled prissily at her.  

                "Hello," he said. "I'm Dr. McQuerry.  I'm the chief of staff of this facility."  He had a glib way of speaking that struck Charlene as insincere.  But she knew how to behave, and so she stuck out her hand and smiled.    

                "I'm Special Agent Starling," she said, not volunteering her first name.    

                "I see.  Here for Clarice, are you?"  

                Charlene nodded.  

                "Very well, then.  Come with me, please.  I'm Clarice's psychiatrist."  

                "How is she doing?" Charlene asked.  

                "She's doing as well as one can expect.  She's been resistant to therapy – she continues to believe that Dr. Lecter is a wonderful man and consistently denies that he forced her to stay."  He gestured.  "We keep the women in a secure building on the back of the facility grounds.  Keeps them away from the male patients that way."  

                He didn't seem nervous at all walking on the open grounds.  Charlene saw why.  The patients were restricted in where they could go.   The buildings were surrounded by fences, and the patients were herded into them like dogs in a run.  A few of them turned and stared at her.  One moon-faced old man standing by a nearby building put his fat fingers through the wire mesh and grinned at her crazily.  

                "She's here to see me," he sang out merrily.  "That's my daughter." 

                Charlene looked uncomfortable. "I'm not your daughter, sir," she murmured.  "You've got me confused with someone else."  

                "No, no," the old man said.  "I _knew _my daughter was coming to see me today.  She said so."   

                "Perhaps so," Charlene told him, "but I'm not her."  

                Dr. McQuerry sighed.  "Freddy, go back inside.  We're busy."    

                "But I want my _daaaauuuughter," _the old man said, and his face crumpled into a mask of sadness.  "She _never _comes to see me and she says she will and today's the day.  I just know it."  

                Dr. McQuerry gave the man a consternated look.  "Freddy, your daughter isn't coming.  Your daughter hasn't come in twenty years. Now go inside."  

                He continued on, never even breaking stride, never looking at the old man as he slowly dissolved into tears.  Charlene cast a glance backwards and suddenly felt uncomfortable.  

                "Poor devil," Dr. McQuerry said.  "He shot his wife twenty years ago.  Post-traumatic stress disorder, apparently.  He's been here ever since."  His tone was indifferent and bored.  "His little girl was five then.  He's convinced she's coming to see him.  Every day for the past seventeen years or so, as soon as he got outside privileges, he waits there for her." 

                _Three freakin' years till they let him outside?  Jesus Christ on a pogostick, _Charlene thought.  

"What's her condition like, Dr. McQuerry?" she asked to change the subject. 

                "Well, as I said, she's doing acceptably well," the doctor sighed.  

                "What sorts of tests has she had?"  

                Dr. McQuerry gave her another prissy, patronizing smile.  "Tests?  What did you mean, Agent Starling?"  

                "Oh, I don't know," Charlene said.  "House-Tree-Person?  Minnesota Multiphasic?  Thematic Apperception?"  

                "You've got some knowledge of the field, then.  No, we haven't tested her yet.  It's sort of an adjustment period for her." He shook his head slowly.  "The poor thing.   I'm trying the therapeutic approach.  Besides, you know, your aunt also has knowledge of psychology.  I'm not sure what testing is going to do.  She can skew the results if she wants.  Dr. Lecter seems to have done his work very well."  

                Hearing _that _name brought the flames of rage in her gut back into full roar.  She decided the doctor was probably right.  Aunt Clarice would need adjustment.   Charlene would help her any way she could.  

                The women's building was tucked in the back of the facility like an afterthought.  Double rows of fencing separated it off from the rest of the hospital.  It was an unlovely building, utilitarian and institutional.  Charlene could see shadows flitting back and forth behind the windows.   Was one of them her aunt?  

                "You don't seem to have many female patients here," Charlene observed.  

                Dr. McQuerry shrugged.   "It's a VA facility, Agent Starling.  Our patients are all veterans.  There just aren't that many women who qualify for placement.  We have six, including your aunt."  

                Charlene glanced back at the other dormitory buildings and noticed that some of them sported recreational equipment around them.  Basketball hoops, a sagging volleyball net, and the like.  The women's' building sported no such amenities.  She scowled, looking away from him so he wouldn't notice.  

                "What do the women here do for recreation?" she asked, trying to make the question sound casual.  

                "They have a field out there they can recreate outside on," Dr. McQuerry said, gesturing.  'Field' was being rather generous.  It was a bare, muddy patch of ground that ran right up to the first barrier fence.  "It's harder to recreate the women outside.  The law mandates that they be kept out of sight and sound of the male inmates."  

                Charlene felt like pointing out that there were ways to comply with that other than simply choosing to screw the female patients over, but she held her tongue.  She didn't want to antagonize this guy.  Not if he could help her aunt.  Helping Aunt Clarice was what mattered.  

                "I just noticed they don't have any recreation equipment," she said.  

                The doctor shrugged.  "They've never expressed any interest in having it," he said.  "Most of them are much happier staying inside and watching soap operas.  _The Young and the Restless _is _very _popular."  

                Charlene bit her lip to avoid saying anything.  _Now hold on, Charlene.  Mr. Crawford said this was a good place.  He wouldn't have put Aunt Clarice here if it wasn't.  And maybe the other women would rather watch TV than go outside.  But Aunt Clarice is gonna want to go outside and run and stuff.  _

"Does my aunt have outside privileges?" she asked.  

                Dr. McQuerry shook his head.  "She's too new.  They'll be available for her to earn, just like everyone else here."  

                "What are the criteria to get them?" Charlene asked calmly.  

                "Six months of good behavior. No staff assaults, no attempts at escape, and no other major infractions." he answered.  

                Six months?  Charlene thought of having to spend six months trapped inside a bland little building like this and found herself shivering at the thought. 

                The aide buzzed them in.  At first, Charlene thought, it wasn't so bad.  There was a lounge of sorts with a TV room.  A few lost-looking women were clustered around it.  Their eyes looked blank and their expressions zombielike.  They barely moved and didn't seem to notice her.  Instead, they simply stared at the soap opera with glassy eyes.  Charlene shivered.  She counted the women.  Four.  

                "Women's maximum security is down in the basement," Dr. McQuerry said, and escorted her downstairs.  There were black barred gates and security doors seemingly everywhere.  Aunt Clarice wasn't breaking out of here, Charlene decided.  Houdini couldn't break out of here.  

                "Is she the only one down there?" Charlene asked as they descended and cleared yet another set of gates.  

                Dr. McQuerry shook his head.  "No," he said indifferently.  "We've got another one down there.  She attacked a staff member."  

                "When will she be eligible to come off maximum security?" Charlene asked.  

                "Your aunt?  Thirty days from her admit date.  Another few weeks.  The other one is a disciplinary matter, so she comes up for reclassification every six months."   

                Charlene thought Dr. McQuerry needed some refreshing on patient confidentiality laws, but didn't say anything.  She was uneasy.  Something wasn't right here.

                "Your visit with your aunt will take place in the visiting room down here," Dr. McQuerry said, bored.  "There will be an orderly watching.  She won't be in restraints for the visit, and you'll be able to touch.  Just stay in your seat and she'll stay in hers.  Do not give her anything.  If you have something to give her, call in the orderly.  It's the same the other way around, but Clarice knows that and she's behaved herself reasonably well so far."  

                Charlene nodded.  

                "You'll need to check your gun and anything that could be used as a weapon at the desk," Dr. McQuerry continued.  Another gate rolled open and Charlene set about disarming herself.  The orderly behind the desk's eyes widened when Charlene took the .45 from her holster and unloaded it.  She dropped the extra clips for the .45 in the metal bin too.  

                "Big gun," the orderly observed.  He was tall, Hispanic, and well muscled.  His arms were heavily tattooed.  His English was accentless. "Wow.  If you ever have to arrest me, ma'am, don't pull that cannon out on me.  I'll be nice and calm for you."  

                Charlene grinned nervously.  Dr. McQuerry muttered something about having other things to do and left.  The orderly stuck out his hand.  

                "I'm Raul," he said.  "I'm the orderly down here.  The marshal round these here parts, you could say."  He hitched an imaginary cowboy hat on his forehead and grinned.  

                "Charlene Starling," Charlene supplied and stuck out her own hand.  It was swallowed up in his grip.  

                "You got handcuffs?" he asked.  

                She nodded.  

                "Stick 'em in there.  Anything else metal, put it in there too.  Even your car keys. I know it sounds strict, but if McQuerry catches you, he'll suspend visitation.  Nothing hard can go in with you."  

                Charlene's eyes narrowed.  "Can he do that?"  

                "Yup," Raul advised.  "This is lockdown."  

                Charlene took a deep breath.  But Raul seemed to be friendly, and she knew all about working joes having to enforce the rules that the bigwigs set down.  So she dropped her keys and handcuffs in the metal box.  Raul put the bin under the desk and flicked a switch.  The final gate buzzed open.  Raul led her through to a room with a scarred metal table and two chairs.  The cells themselves were down the hall.  She could not see into them.  She sat down in one of the chairs and swallowed.  

                "It's all OK," Raul said.  "I got to get her.  Just be a minute."  

                "Could I see her cell?" Charlene asked.  

                Raul shrugged.  "There's no rule that says you can't," he said casually.  "I'll ask her first, though, and if she says no I'll have to ask you for a pretty good reason why.  Down here in Max we don't like to rile 'em up any more than we absolutely have to."  

                Charlene nodded.  Raul ducked out of the room.  She heard another gate buzz open.  Then she heard Raul's voice, friendly and jocular.  

                "Hey, Clarice.  Got a visitor for you.  Wanna come on out for me?"

                Her aunt's voice filled her ears for the first time since Argentina. Buzzy and hard to hear, coming through a speaker.  It had only been the second time in years that she had heard it.  Charlene sighed and put her hand to her forehead.  

                "Hi, Raul.  A visitor?  If it's Crawford, let me save you time.  I don't want to see him."  

                "Not Crawford, and I know from last time. I think they heard you cussing him out in the next county last time.  It's a young woman."    

                Charlene's jaw dropped.  Crawford had tried to visit Clarice before?  After he'd told _her – _a family member, no less – to wait?  

                _He's an expert, _she told herself.  _Just trust him.  He's trying to do the same thing you are and help Aunt Clarice.  _

                A pause.  "My niece?"  

                "I suppose so.  She looks like you.  C'mon, Clarice, you know I hate shouting through these things.  How about you come on out and we'll talk like civilized people."  

                There was a buzz of a door and a heavy metal clank.  Then Charlene could hear footsteps.  Raul's heavy black oxfords combined with the _wshh _of paper slippers.  For a moment, Charlene bit her lip and found herself feeling very nervous.  Had this been a bad idea?  She cast her eyes around the place.  Maximum security.  Lockdown.  They were keeping her aunt Clarice in lockdown.  

                A voice outside, transmitted through normal air and not a microphone:  "Do youhave to hold my arm, Raul?" 

                Raul's voice, regretful but still friendly.  "Fraid so, Clarice.  It's the rules.  It's either that or cuffs or a jacket.  It's the rules.  Gotta take that up with McQuerry.  Out of my hands."  

                A short, bitter laugh followed that.  "Then do what you gotta, Raul," Clarice said.  "It's OK.  I'm not gonna bother appealing to Dr. Stalin."  

                The door to the visiting room opened.  Charlene tensed. She felt a lump form in her throat and tears rise to her eyes.  She forced them away resolutely.  She wasn't gonna cry in front of Aunt Clarice.  Not after all this time.  She had to be strong.  She needed to be.  Aunt Clarice had been strong for her.  

                A shadow appeared in the doorway.  


	6. Black & White

                The woman in the doorway looked in at Charlene.  Charlene looked back at her.  Neither one spoke.  Charlene felt a lump in her throat and couldn't push it away.  Clarice eyed her calmly for a few moments.  She looked neither angry nor happy to see her.  Then, after a few moments, she sat down at the table across from Charlene.  

                Clarice sighed and looked resigned.   

                "Hello, Charlene," she said softly.  

                "Aunt Clarice," Charlene said just as softly.  

                Silence reigned in the room for a few minutes.  

                "How are they treating you?" Charlene asked, fighting back tears.  

                Clarice sighed again and shrugged.  "It's prison," she said flatly.  "Charlene, why did you do this to me?"  

                Charlene's shoulders trembled and she lowered her head.  When she raised it, tears glittered in her blue eyes.  It took her a few moments to recover herself enough to be able to speak.  

                "It's a hospital, Aunt Clarice," she said in a strengthless whisper.  "They're gonna help you here.  Help you get better."  

                Clarice observed her tearful niece and reached across the table to pat her hand.  

                "I didn't need to get better, Charlene," she said.  "I was just fine as I was.  And this place isn't going to help me get better."  

                "Yes, it is," Charlene said.  "There are doctors here.  They'll help you."  

                "I didn't need help," Clarice said.  

                "Yes, you do," Charlene said.  "Dr. Lecter…Dr. Lecter screwed up your head." 

                An expression of pain crossed Clarice's face.  "No, he didn't," she said softly.  

                Charlene's eyes widened.  "Yes, he did," she scolded.  "Aunt Clarice, you're not thinking right.  God only knows what he did to your head.  You need…you need some time to heal up and get right.  And that's what they're gonna do here."  

                Clarice chuckled bitterly.  "What they're gonna do here, Charlene, is they're gonna brainwash me.  This is punishment."  She gestured around her.  "Do you think you'd do much healing in a place like this?"  

                "That's just for now," Charlene said.  "Please, Aunt Clarice.  You gotta listen to me here.  They mean well.  They're gonna help.  They ain't brainwashers.  That's just…that's just something Dr. Lecter _made _you think."  

                Clarice eyed her niece across the table and smiled sadly.  How young and idealistic she was.  Clarice remembered those days herself.  

                "You say that, Charlene, and I think you believe it yourself," Clarice said softly.  "But honey, that's not how it is.  This is prison.  It's punishment.  Crawford can do whatever he likes to me here, and nobody's gonna say boo about it."  

                "That ain't true."  Her stress had brought out the nonstandard grammar Dr. Lecter had mocked her for.  "Mr. Crawford wants what's best for you.  Same as me."  

                "What's best for me." Clarice shook her head.  "Gee, Charlene, down there I had a mansion and a husband I loved and a perfect life.  People _loved _me down there.  I helped people.  Now up here I'm an inmate in a loony bin.  Charlene, my freaking _closet _was bigger than the cell they've got me in.   If that's what you think is best for me, you'll just have to excuse me if I don't take your opinion too deeply to heart."  

                Charlene lowered her head to her hands and her shoulders quaked for a few minutes.  Dr. Lecter's words echoed in her mind.  _She wants no part of you.  She never did.  You were just her illegitimate niece.  _ Was it true?  It couldn't be.  She hadn't worked so hard for _this.  _

Then Clarice's hand was soft and calming on her shoulder.  

                "Charlene, it's OK.  Don't cry.  C'mon, buck up now."  

                Charlene raised her head and stared at her aunt with naked pain on her face.  "No, it _ain't _okay!" she burst out.  "Do you have any idea what I've been _through _for all these years?  I thought you were _dead.  _I saw him…saw him carry you out all bloody and nekkid.  Do you know how that made me feel, thinking you were dead and he ate you? And then to find out for all that time you've been gallivanting around South America with that…that…_killer?  _That _thing?  _Why couldn't you tell me you were alive?" She stared at her aunt with agony in her eyes.  

                Clarice sighed.  She had to measure her words carefully.  

                "Charlene," she said, "look, you gotta understand here…I never meant for you to suffer any pain.  I know what that lunatic did to you.  But what I did with Dr. Lecter…I had to leave and not look back.  I'm sorry if you were hurt.  But I had to…I was miserable.  I wanted to be happy."  

                "Happy?  With a _serial killer?"  _ 

                Clarice swallowed her anger.  Charlene was just venting, she told herself.  And besides, she'd come all this way to see Clarice.  Plus, she was the only person Clarice knew right now who didn't have some sort of hidden agenda.  

                "There's more to Dr. Lecter than that."  

                "No, there ain't.  He's evil."  

                "Dr. Lecter did some bad things a long time ago.  But he's moved beyond that.  He won't kill anymore.  He promised me he wouldn't." 

                Charlene's face became a mixture of disbelief and pain.  "And you _believed _him?"  

                "Yes, I did," Clarice said calmly.  "Dr. Lecter doesn't lie."  

                "He would if it suited him," Charlene insisted heatedly.  

                Clarice shook her head.  "Charlene," she said, "you're thinking that Dr. Lecter's going to go out and kick puppies just for the sake of being mean.  He's not like that.  He's not Snidely Whiplash.  There are different sides to him, sides you don't see--," 

                "Sides he brainwashed you into seeing," Charlene said flatly.  "Evil.  He's pure evil."  

                _Great, _Clarice thought.  _Just great.  _Clarice Starling had majored in psychology, and she knew enough to put the pieces together.  Charlene saw the world in black and white.  Things were either good or evil. She'd assigned Dr. Lecter the evil role.  No amount of convincing or cajoling would convince her otherwise.  

                _Isn't this hideously ironic, _Clarice thought, watching her niece quiver emotionally across the table from her.  _She sees everything as black or white and she works for the original gray man.  _

"No, he isn't," Clarice said softly but firmly.  

                "Oh," Charlene said angrily.  "I suppose he's just a wonderful guy once you get to know him.  Spose he fed the duckies in the park an' helped ol' ladies acrost the street."  

                Clarice Starling lowered her head to her hand.  "Is he any worse than the people who put me here?"  

                "Mr. Crawford ain't evil," Charlene said resolutely.  "He wants you to get better.  And fix what…what that monster did to your mind."  

                Clarice snorted.  "Charlene, _you _want me to get better," she said firmly.  "I believe you want the best for me, or what you _think _is the best for me.  And I appreciate that.  But don't make any mistakes about Jack Crawford.  He has his own goals.  Always has.  And he doesn't care who he has to sacrifice to get to them, and if you cross him he'll break you and move on.  He's very convincing.  He's learned to be.  But don't make the mistake of assuming Jack Crawford cares a crap about you unless you're giving him something he wants."  

                Charlene stared disbelievingly at her aunt.  She broke eye contact to stare wonderingly at the table and shook her head, then looked back at her.  

                "I can't believe what I'm hearing," she said.  "You're telling me Dr. Lecter is this wonderful great guy?  Do you know what he told me?  He's a _monster, _Aunt Clarice.  Nothing more, nothing less.  And Mr. Crawford's the bad guy now?  All Mr. Crawford wants is to keep people safe from…from…," Her chin began to tremble with rage.  Her eyes were aflame. The color had risen in her face.  An independent observer looking into the room, if asked to point out which woman was the mental patient and which was the visitor, might have easily gotten it wrong.  "From…_evildoers _like Dr. Lecter."  She banged her fist on the table to emphasize that Dr. Lecter's was no ordinary malevolence.  

                Clarice watched this distantly.  She couldn't help but be concerned.  A bitter, cynical voice in the back of her head spoke up.  _Scuse me, Clarice old kid old sock, but let me get this straight here:  **you're **the one locked up here, God only knows what Crawford and that McQuerry tool are planning to do to you, and you're concerned about **her? **It's because of her that all this happened.  If not for her, I'd still be with Hannibal instead of locked up on separate frigging continents.  _

But she knew the answer despite her very real anger over her situation.  The initial rage at her niece had faded on the long flight up to the United States and the few days of confinement here. Clarice was a capable investigator.  She'd heard Charlene's comment to Dr. Lecter at his arrest.  Charlene had thought Dr. Lecter had killed her.  She knew Crawford.  The pieces of the puzzle weren't hard to put together.  Crawford had seen her niece's pain and arrowed in unerringly on it, knowing it would be of use to him.  She couldn't be mad at Charlene.  Crawford had manipulated her into doing his bidding just as he had once did to Clarice herself and Will Graham.  Confronted with her niece's obvious pain she felt not anger but sympathy.  

                And even now, even locked up here in this loony bin, she could survive.  She was strong.  Eventually she would get out.  Eventually they would be reunited.  It was the way of things.  But Charlene – now there was another matter.  She seemed to have built her life around the concept that Dr. Lecter had killed her aunt.   Now she knew that wasn't true.  Clarice could sense a haunted brokenness in Charlene's eyes.  Her black-and-white worldview was beginning to see the shades of gray and she was freaking out about it.  She doubted Charlene was willing to budge on Dr. Lecter.  She had too much invested in him being evil.  But maybe Clarice could make her see just a little.  

                "Charlene," Clarice said softly, "I'm not saying Jack Crawford is the epitome of evil.  But that doesn't mean he's good, either."  

                "Yes, he is."  

                Clarice sighed.  "I know you think that," she said.  "After all, right now you're his golden girl.  Know what, Charlene?  I was there once.  I brought down Buffalo Bill.  For a while there was nothing I wanted more than Jack Crawford's approval.  I know how it is for you.  I've been there.  You always want to say Daddy knows best.  But he doesn't, Charlene.  He stuck me here for his own purposes."  

                Charlene's eyes hardened.  "Maybe that's what you think of it," she said bitterly.  "I never knew my real daddy.  But you already knew that, didn't you?"  

                Where the hell had _that _come from?  Clarice reached over and patted her niece's hand again.  "Well…you know what I mean.  You trust him," she groped.  "But Charlene, you gotta listen to me here.  Don't let Crawford piss on your leg and tell you it's raining."  

                "He's been good to me," Charlene said stubbornly.  "TDY'ed me to Behavioral Sciences.  Wants to bring me in permanent soon as he can."  

                Clarice nodded.  "He said that once to me, too," she said.  "Charlene, honey, I know, it's been hard on you, and I'm really sorry for anything I've done to hurt you.  I never meant that.   I'm only human.  I've made my mistakes, and believe me, I'm paying for them."  She indicated the surroundings with a hand.  "Just…just don't believe everything you hear.  Take it with a grain of salt, that's all I'm asking."  

                "So what?" Charlene asked.  "Let Lecter go?  Let him go kill somebody else? Make some more filet of orchestra musician?"      

                Clarice looked blank.  "What?  He hasn't done anything like that in years.  I told you.  He gave that up."  

                Charlene shook her head resolutely.  "Oh yeah?  Tell me about Miguel Peñon, then."  

                Clarice shrugged.  "I…I don't know what you're talking about, Charlene."  

                "Miguel Peñon.  Played fifth-chair violin for the Buenos Aires Philharmonic.   Went missing two years ago."  Charlene folded her arms and stared her aunt down.   "Lousy violin player, accordin' to the reviews I got off the Web.  Went missing and never found."  The accusation was too obvious to need to be stated.  

                Clarice gave her niece an exasperated look.  "Oh, so a musician goes missing and so Dr. Lecter _must've _done it."  

                "He's done it before," Charlene observed pointedly.  "He's got a taste for it, so to speak."  

                Clarice opened her hands and turned her palms up in a gesture that said _Look, this is all I got_. "Charlene, he didn't kill the guy."  

                Charlene's head flicked to the side and gave her aunt an irritated look.  "Oh yeah?  You sure?  Who did the cooking in _casa Lecter_, you or him?  Did you see him cooking every meal?"  

                Clarice knew where this was going.  "We had a chef, actually.  Charlene, listen--," 

                "Uh huh.  He'd still cook.  I studied him too, you know.  He likes cooking too much to give it up.  I got news for you, Aunt Clarice.  You ate the fiddle player," Charlene accused.  High spots of hectic color rose in her cheeks.  

                "Charlene, no.  Dr. Lecter didn't--," 

                "Oh yes he did," Charlene said heatedly.  

                For a moment the sheer ludicrousness of the situation struck Clarice.  Here she was, locked up in a mental hospital.  Crawford had his own plans for her.  And here she was, arguing with her niece over whether or not she had eaten an orchestra musician.  What was more ludicrous was that Charlene firmly believed that Dr. Lecter had done this deed.  

                "I was there.  He didn't.  He saw it in the newspaper and commented on it," Clarice said.   "He thought it was funny.  But he didn't kill him and we didn't eat him."  

                "Did you have any dinner parties round the time he went missing?"  Charlene pressed.  

                "Charlene, honey, please, let's have a nice visit," Clarice said.  

                "_Did _you?"  

                For a moment Clarice thought of lying, but she supposed if she did, Charlene would catch it.  

                "Yes," she said resignedly.  

                "Mmm mmm good," Charlene said acerbically.  

                Clarice wondered whether she should laugh or cry.  At this point, both sounded good.  "We didn't eat the goddam fiddle player," she snapped.  "We served filet mignon.  Very rare.  I remember it."  

                "I bet it was goddam rare," Charlene shot back.  "Filet Peñon you should say." 

                Clarice opened her palms again, pushing out towards her niece.  "You know what?  This isn't working.   I am _not _a cannibal myself, Charlene.  I don't know what's got you so mad, honey, but this is just getting worse and worse."  

                She could sense Charlene about to speak and kept talking.  It was surprisingly easy to keep her tone calm and keep talking.  

                "I don't know what's gotten you so angry, Charlene, but I don't want to sit here and argue with you.  I'm glad you came, and you come on back anytime if you can keep calm.  But I don't want to sit here and fight with you.  I've got enough misery in my life right now.  Okay?"  She turned her head and banged on the door.  "Raul?" she called.  "We're done here. Thanks."  

                The expression on Charlene's face shifted from anger to sadness as she realized what was happening.  "Aunt Clarice, wait.  Let's just sit down."  

                "Not right now, Charlene.  Some other time.  When you're calmer."

                "I'm calm now," Charlene implored.  

                _Kiddo, I don't think you've been calm for years.  Jesus Christ, what kind of emotional roller coaster have you been on?  Have you been like this ever since I left?  _Clarice thought.  

                "It's almost time anyway.  Some other time, Charlene.  I'm glad you came.  I just want you to stay calm."  

                Charlene's face hardened.  "So you're leaving," she said bitterly.  "Rather be in lockdown than talk to me."  

                "Just for now.  I don't want you to be like this, Charlene.  You come visit me when you're calm.  We'll have a nice time then."  

                Raul came to the door.  Sensing the tension, he glanced from woman to woman and paused.  

                "I _am _calm," Charlene said.  "But g'wan, Aunt Clarice.  You don't want to talk to me, so g'wan."  

                "I do, Charlene," Clarice said patiently, "but not when you're so angry.  You come see me.  Some other time.  We'll have a nice time then."  

                "Some other time," Charlene said bitterly.  "Fine.  You g'wan.  It's what you've always done anyway."  

                She turned and strode away on that line, heading for the first gate.  It buzzed open and she stepped through.  After stepping through it and going to the desk to collect her things, she turned and stared at the woman in institutional pajamas standing in the hallway.  

                "Goodbye, Aunt Clarice," she said sadly.  

                "I'm sorry, Charlene," Clarice said.  

                "So am I, Aunt Clarice," Charlene said.  "So am I."  

                Then she went back upstairs, jamming her gun in its holster.  Her keys jangled angrily as she jammed them back in her purse.  She did not look back at Clarice.  Another gate buzzed open and she was gone.  Her footsteps thundered on the stairs.  

                Walking back to her car, she found herself trembling with angry energy.  She maintained enough composure to sign out at the Administration building without losing it.  But once back in the Mustang, she could hold it back no more.  She burst into hysterical tears, pounding her fist on the leather-wrapped steering wheel.  The shock of contact against her fist was painful, but somehow satisfying.  For several minutes she sat there and cried until it subsided.  What was worse was that she wasn't sure what she was crying about.  

                Down in the dungeons, Clarice entered her cell quietly.  The heavy metal door slammed shut.  Raul stood outside her door, watching her.  She sat down on her bunk, facing away from the door, and seemed quite still.  For several moments, no one moved.  

                Finally, Raul walked up to her door and buzzed the intercom.  His voice was tinny and artificial-sounding over the speaker.  

                "Look, Clarice," he said.  "I ain't one to stick my nose into other people's business, but looks like that didn't go so well.  If you want to talk, you know, come talk." 

                Clarice sighed.  Raul was a nice guy – one of the few nice guys here in McQuerryland.  But she wasn't ready to go that far yet.  She chuckled sourly.  

                "You know, you sound like the evil alien emperor Zeegon over that loudspeaker," she said.  

                Raul nodded on the other side of the door.  "It's hard, with family, sometimes," he said.  "They don't always understand how it is for you."  

                Clarice turned around and looked at Raul through the porthole of her cell door.  

                "Oh, it's not me I'm worried about, Raul," she said.  "It's her."  

                She got off her bunk and walked up to the door.  

                "I can get out of here someday," she explained.  "Nobody can let Charlene out of her cell…except herself."  

                


	7. Meeting Halfway

                For the next several days, Clarice's time at the hospital seemed to be one big run-on swatch of time.   She slept a lot.  In the morning, her breakfast would be served through the food slot of her cell door.  In Argentina, with Dr. Lecter, breakfast had been a delight for the senses.  There was lots of food.  It had been attractively presented. She'd developed a real appetite for breakfast then.  Not any more.  Now she received tasteless food along with plastic utensils on a Styrofoam tray.  She swore that the pancakes they served were made with dishwater.  The kitchen couldn't screw up boxed cereal, but they could and did water down the milk.  The coffee was simply dreadful.  She was used to strong-brewed coffee from the best gourmet beans.  What she got here was tepid water dressed in brown.  It was awful.  

                After that was more heavy time on her hands.  She spent most of her day locked in her cell.  The mental hospital allowed her access to a small library cart, but most of the books were literary popcorn.  She couldn't bear the thought of reading a bunch of Daniel Steele romances, but did so because there was nothing left for her to read.  Apparently, she was to be treated with a healthy dose of being left to stare at the four walls in her cell.  

                After a tasteless, joyless lunch was therapy with Dr. McQuerry.  She'd originally pegged him as a mid-level bureaucrat.  He went through the motions, did what he was told to do by those of higher ranks, and made those under him follow the rules.  For men like McQuerry – whether they be VA psychiatrists, FBI agents, or whatever organization you wanted – the rules were everything.  A patient could be bleeding out the eyeballs and he'd still expect that staff would follow the rules and make sure each gate was locked down before opening the next.  

                On the other hand, if this was the big gun they had aimed at her in order to 'deprogram' her from the brainwashing Dr. Lecter had supposedly performed on her, she didn't have much to worry about.  Dr. McQuerry's idea of therapy was to sit there and ask her repeatedly if something wasn't true.  _Isn't it true, Clarice, that Dr. Lecter committed horrible atrocities when he was free?  _Why, when he was a much younger man, Dr. McQuerry.  We lived together for eight years and I never saw him raise a finger to anyone.  Doesn't sound like a slavering, murderous psychopath to me, but then what do I know?  _But isn't it true that he ate people?  _Well, yes, again, a long time ago.  _Isn't it true that he killed and ate a Buenos Aires musician?  _Have you been talking to my niece, Dr. McQuerry?  I know I've been out of the country, but normally I believe that you have to have evidence and proof before you can accuse someone of that.  Declaration by fiat doesn't cut it, now that you mention it.  _Clarice, I'm only trying to help you.  _

Then back to the cell for more wall-staring therapy for a few hours.  Personally, Clarice had to give the staring-at-walls thing about par with Dr. McQuerry's therapy.   Once a day she was taken out to a tiny, locked room and allowed to walk in a circle for an hour with her wrists and ankles cuffed.  Never once did she go outside.  Then dinner, then bedtime.  Quiet hour at nine PM.  Just Clarice, staring up into the darkness of her cell on her thin mattress. 

                It was boring and tedious.  No _wonder _the doctor had been in as bad a mood as he was during his incarceration.  Clarice had plenty of time to think, though.  And think she did.  She thought about playing along in order to get more privileges.  She thought about Hannibal and what he must be going through.  Raul liked the _Tattler, _and the _Tattler _was going absolutely nuts over this.  It was too much for them to pass up.  He would give her the paper once he had read it.  And she thought about Charlene.  

                Clarice could cope with this.  She was strong.  She'd always been a warrior.  It wouldn't be forever.  She was more worried about her niece.  She hadn't given herself up to McCracken for Charlene to…to make herself into some sort of copy of her.  And the kid seemed downright miserable.  Clarice knew it well.  She'd work and work and work and get nothing.  

                So yesterday she hadn't been as openly sassy towards Dr. McQuerry.  And today, once she'd been brought into the bare therapy room, she'd eyed the bored doctor as soon as he came in.   Before the _isn't-it-true-Clarice _wagon train started up, she'd cleared her throat and made direct eye contact with the bureaucrat.  

                "Dr. McQuerry," she asked, "what would I have to do in order to make a phone call?" 

                The doctor brightened.  This involved rules.  He was ever so good at quoting rules, Clarice thought sourly.  

                "The institution's rules, Miss Starling, state that a maximum-security inmate is allowed to make one personal phone call per week.  Ten minutes, collect, through the institution switchboard.  It is monitored.  Legal calls are permitted without being monitored."  

                _Time to tell you what you want to hear, you officious prick.  _"Well, you know," she said, "I really feel bad about when my niece visited.  I just feel like…like…like I turned her away."  

                "Your niece was upset," the doctor agreed.  "Clarice, your niece is very, very concerned about you."  

                "I know she is," Clarice said.  Then inspiration struck.  "You know, Dr. Lecter told me I should avoid my family.  That they only wanted to, um, hurt us and take him away and so I couldn't talk to him.  But after all this time…and this _therapy… _well, you know, I'm starting to think he was wrong."  

                The doctor nodded.  "I think we're getting somewhere," he said.  

                Clarice was mildly amazed.  From _her _point of view, her acting wasn't good enough to get her an acting gig in a Zucker Brothers movie.  But he was biting.  

                "You know," she said, forcing herself to look wide-eyed, "I really, really, want to mend ties with Charlene."  _That _was actually no lie.  She felt badly about what had happened at Charlene's visit.   "Do you think I could…would you let me make a phone call to her?"  

                "That depends on your progress," Dr. McQuerry said.  

                _Oh, I'll serve you up a plate of mush like you'd never believe, _Clarice thought, and did.  She gave McQuerry credit for having a few functioning brain cells and didn't play the chest-thumping new convert.  Instead, very slowly, shakily, and not without a few feigned tears, she professed her worries that Dr. Lecter _might _have misled her.  She was very confused.  She was upset.  The therapy was helping a lot, really, but still.  Was it possible that she had been misled all these years?  Was she a bad person?  Dr. McQuerry assured her he was not in a tone that suggested he was thinking about other things, like his crossword puzzle or his retirement fund.  She rubbed at her eyes and played it up.  Part of her wanted to gag.  She'd always hated stuff like this.  But it was necessary.  

                She _still _didn't think her acting was any better than what one saw in a _Hee Haw _skit, but McQuerry bought it.  He seemed pleased, as pleased as he got.  At the end of the therapy session he sent her back to her cell.  But she saw him talking calmly with Raul before he left to go annoy the women up top.  Raul was a nice enough guy to check her records, where Charlene had left her number.  Clarice checked the clock.  Two-thirty.  Nah, she would wait until Charlene was home.  Clarice had her work number, but didn't want to call there.  It would be recorded.  Somehow or another it would get to Crawford.

                She held out for four hours.  She had a romance novel with papery characters and a plot about as intellectually stimulating as raw oatmeal.   But there was plenty of bodice ripping and soft bodies in muscular arms, and it did the job of passing the time.  Six-thirty.  Charlene would be home.  

                Raul responded to her buzz calmly and glanced in.  

                "Eeeey, _chica," _he said, grinning.  "I told you never to call me at work."  

                "I just can't resist you," she said, grinning.  "I asked McQuerry about a phone call."  

                "Yeah, apparently you're progressing," he said. 

                "Can I have that now?"  

                "Sure thing," Raul said, and headed back down to get the phone.  He came back with it on a long cord, unreeling it as he went.  Clarice watched him, feeling a bit nervous.  What was Charlene going to say? Would she hang up?  Was she so lost in Crawford's maze that she had forsaken her aunt?  

                _No, _Clarice told herself, _she's hurt and confused and she needs somebody.  _

                "Now, look, Clarice," Raul said.  "This is your first time with the phone.  I've seen it before.  You get ten minutes.  Do yourself a favor – don't try and keep the phone over that time."  

                "I won't," Clarice said.  

                "Good.  Cause I know how it is, you don't want to say goodbye.  But don't make us go in there and bundle you up to get it."  

                Clarice nodded.  Despite herself, she liked Raul; the guy enforced the rules because he had no other choice.  He had to answer to people like McQuerry who worshipped the rules as if they were gods.  

                But there it was, sitting in her food slot.  The phone.  She picked it up and began to dial.  It rang a few times.  Clarice swallowed nervously and began to pace in her cell.  

                The phone was picked up.  A voice sounded in her ear.  

                "Starling," Charlene said.  

                Clarice took a deep breath.  "Charlene," she said.  "It's Aunt Clarice."  

                There was silence on the other end of the line for a few moments.  Was that good or bad?  

                "Aunt Clarice," Charlene said neutrally.  "How are yew?"  

                "I'm all right," Clarice said.  "Listen, Charlene, I wanted to talk to you for a bit."  

                "Guess they wouldn't let you talk to your serial killer, then, if you must be reduced to slummin' with the likes of me," Charlene answered briskly.  

                Clarice took a deep breath.  "Charlene, you're putting words in my mouth.  I never said any such thing about you.  You c'mon and be fair now." 

                "Oh, you didn't?" Charlene challenged.  Clarice bit her lip.  _Why is she so angry?  _

"Charlene, honey, listen to me," Clarice said.  "I could've called anyone I wanted to.  I asked to call you.  I feel bad about what happened t'other day, and I want you to come see me again.  I don't…I don't like seeing you get so upset, but I don't want to lose touch entirely."  Then it occurred to her she _had _lost touch entirely with the younger woman, and that had been part of what put her here.  She took a deep breath and continued.  Was there anything she could do? Yes, there was.  The cleansing fire of remorse.  

                "I hurt you, Charlene.  I know that.  I'm sorry I did," she said in a pained whisper.  "I want…I want to try and start again.  But that ain't just my decision, Charlene.   Do you?"  

                There was silence on the other end of the line again.  "Yes," Charlene said finally, and Clarice could hear her flipping pages.  "I can come an' see you Monday, I guess.  That work?'  

                _Charlene, I'm in the nuthatch, _Clarice wanted to say.  _Any freaking day works for me.   _But she didn't.  

                "Works just fine," she said.  

                They chatted about nonconsequentialities for the rest of the ten minutes.  The subjects of Dr. Lecter and Jack Crawford were carefully avoided.  But for the first time since her capture, Clarice found herself feeling happy.  

                Charlene was true to her word and arrived that Monday.  As in the phone conversation, there was a cautious peace in the visit.  Certain things could not be spoken of.  Neither woman expressed her opinion of the other's associates.  But it was a start, and they had to start somewhere.   No voices were raised and the end of the visit was pleasant.   But elsewhere, plans were changing.  

                …

                Dr. Lecter knew his time here was short.  He wouldn't miss the cell, or the rats.  But he knew he was only going to trade this cell for a rat-free one back in the United States.  And there, he would live out his days completely alone, in total isolation and silence.  Death would be preferable.  

                Yet here, he was largely left to his own devices.  Occasionally he would be handcuffed and pulled out of his cell and shoved into another one set up to take a shower.  One guard had taken pity on him and given him some cleaning supplies.  He'd put his cell in order as best he could.  But still, the open hole in the floor absolutely reeked.  

                He heard the footsteps coming down the hall almost immediately.  It wasn't Charlene.  A pity.  He had rather enjoyed their conversations.  No, these were definitely an old man's shoes.  Hmmm.  

                Jack Crawford walked down the hall calmly to Dr. Lecter's cell door.  He glanced in at the doctor with what seemed like a smile on his face.  But he had always been a cloaked man.  Dr. Lecter was surprised that Crawford had come to visit him himself.  

                "Dr. Lecter," Crawford said emotionlessly.  

                Odd, that.  He had been sure Jacky-boy would call him Hannibal to his face, as if they were old friends.  But if Crawford would show courtesy, he could as well.  

                "Mr. Crawford."  

                "I don't know if your attorneys told you, but I gave a deposition in court today," Crawford said.  "In regards to your extradition."  

                Dr. Lecter nodded.  They seemed like two old gunfighters, as if only the thick steel door in between them kept them from fighting. Their advanced ages meant nothing in regard to the rivalry that had existed all these years.  

                "They haven't given me everything," Dr. Lecter said.  "But thank you for telling me.  I appreciate the courtesy call."  

                Crawford took a few pained steps up and down outside the cell as if nervous.  Dr. Lecter tilted his head and observed the other man wordlessly.  

                "So, this is how it ends," Crawford said finally.  "Did you ever think it would end this way, doctor?  I caught you."  

                "It's not over yet, Jack," Dr. Lecter said.  

                "It is for you."  Crawford grinned, and Dr. Lecter saw the resentment in his eyes.  First, he had taken Will Graham out of Crawford's pack.  Then he had taken Clarice away from him.  _That _was what this was about.  

                "And it wasn't you who caught me, you know," Dr. Lecter said.  "_You _never did, once.  You found others to move as pawns on your chessboard.  Your skill has always been in manipulation."  

                Crawford chuckled emptily.  "As has yours."  

                "To some degree," Dr. Lecter admitted.  Then he took a breath.  "Tell me, Jack, how did it feel when you knew it was me who had taken Clarice?  Was it then you decided to scar and traumatize her niece?"  

                "I didn't traumatize Agent Starl—Charlene Starling," Crawford said.  "You did that, by taking and brainwashing Clarice."  

                _"Brainwash."  _Dr. Lecter rolled the word around his mouth in amusement.  "Interesting that you put it that way.  Jack, we are both men who have convinced Starlings into the orbits of our lives."  His eyes gleamed drolly.  "But I must say…at least _I _saw to _my _Starling's happiness and inner peace.  I can't say the same for you."  

                "She's feeling much better since she caught you," Crawford said.  

                "I doubt that.  She was quite miserable, although she doesn't know why.  A pity.  She's a first-class investigator.  She had to have been, in order to have caught _me _at such a young age.  Tell me, Jack, does that young, lithe body make you think…naughty thoughts?"  

                Jack Crawford laughed and shook his head.  "Dr. Lecter, we're both old men," he said.  "You know the answer to that."  

                It was Dr. Lecter's turn to chuckle.  "My, Jack, time must have wracked you harder than me," he said.  "_I _had a…satisfying relationship with my Starling."  

                He took great pleasure in the faint signs of anger and exasperation and…yes, jealousy, there it was—that streamed across the craggy features of Jack Crawford's face.  Yes, there was some opportunity for some fun here.  

                "Of course there's a vastly different age difference there," Dr. Lecter said.  "But tell me Jack, and be honest.  You think about it, don't you?"  

                "I'm not answering that, Dr. Lecter," Crawford said.  

                "You do.  I can see it in the way you grip that cane.  I can't fault you for taste, she's quite attractive and there's a brain behind those thick curls of hers.   But it's just on your end, isn't it?  The thought hasn't even crossed her mind.  Just as happened with Clarice, I might add.  She never saw you as a sexual partner either. What do you want to do to her, Jack?  Tell me what squalid fantasies you've had.   Did you want her to dress up like a nurse?  Or perhaps a Girl Scout?  Are you going to buy her cookies, Jack?"  

                Crawford exhaled.  "Goodbye, Dr. Lecter."  He turned to leave.  

                _Very well, Jack.  Honestly if you'd just admit you were attracted to her you wouldn't be so vulnerable there.  _

"I'll give you this one for free," Dr. Lecter said.  "You won't have her very long in any case."  

                Crawford turned and looked back at him with those veiled eyes.  _What thoughts are you cranking out in there now, Jack?  _

"Oh, not in the sexual sense.  Those tawdry little fantasies in your head will remain just that.  I mean as a profiler, Jack.  You never keep the best.  Your manipulative tendencies run them off."  

                "You're not going to get your hands on her, Hannibal," Crawford said.  "And I think I'll take my employment advice from someone who isn't facing the needle, if you don't mind."  

                Dr. Lecter shrugged.  Crawford was trying to come off as tough and failing miserably.  He'd never confronted Hannibal Lecter himself before tonight.   Had he thought assuming first-name basis would make him seem manly? Quite another thing.  

                "You're not going to keep her," Dr. Lecter said resolutely.  "And the answer is right there in your past."  

                "Clarice.  I know.  Not happening, Dr. Lecter," he said.  

                Dr. Lecter shook his head and stood straight in the ragged prison uniform.  "Not Clarice, actually," he said.  "I tend towards monogamy myself, Jack.  I am with one woman and so I shall remain.  Your interest in Charlene may have carnal aspects; mine is purely avuncular.  I _would _so like to have her on my couch someday.  I suspect there's more there than you believed.  Just as there was with Clarice."   He chuckled.  "There _has _to be.  She caught me at such a young age, after all."  

                "Perhaps you're not as smart as you think, and _that's _why she caught you," Crawford said.  He had gone back to his usual gray status.  Not an emotion escaped that cloaked hawk's face.  "But it's only fair to warn you, doctor.  My testimony wrapped up today.  We've been leaning on the Argentines as much as we can."  Now he chuckled.   

                "I would expect no less."  

                "Good.  Dr. Lecter, the argument of the American DOJ was that you were an illegal immigrant and thus had no standing in an Argentine court.  The judge will rule on that in the next few days.  He might rule in favor of us.  He might not.  If he doesn't, you get a few more months in there while the Argentines do their thing."  Crawford smiled.  "But if he _doesn't, _Dr. Lecter, then you'll be eligible for immediate deportation.  You'd be held here while we worked out the logistics, but you'd be looking at returning home by the end of next week."  

                Dr. Hannibal Lecter tilted his head and stared at Jack Crawford silently for a few moments.  

                "And just so you know, Dr. Lecter," Crawford added.  "I hope you don't plan on having Clarice at your side.  She's safe in our hands."  

                "Odd that you accuse me of brainwashing her when you seem inclined to do the same," Dr. Lecter observed.  

                "We've been trying to get Clarice some therapy," Jack Crawford said, and grinned a small grin. "If that doesn't work…well, we've got other plans.  But she won't be in your corner in any case, Dr. Lecter.  There's more than one way to skin a cat, you know.  Have a nice day, Dr. Lecter.  We'll be seeing you real soon."  

                That same small half-grin was on his face as he turned to leave.  Dr. Lecter's eyes widened for a moment.   As Crawford left, he considered the possibilities.  They were not good.  What was worse was that there wasn't anything he could do to help his little Starling.  Not locked away five thousand miles from her.  He was…powerless.

                Hannibal Lecter put his hands on the barred grille of his window and felt like a prisoner for the first time since he had been brought here. 


	8. Turn for the Worse

_Author's note:  Here we are, Chapter 8.  Things get unpleasant here…not gory per se, but unpleasant. _

                The courthouse was quite distinguished, Dr. Lecter thought.  It was a vast old building in a part of Buenos Aires he had quite grown to like.  The courtrooms were spacious.  Too bad he was a defendant in the dock here.  Still, there was something to court:  it was the only place where he was not locked in a cell or kept in chains.  

                He sat at the defense table with his attorneys next to him.  Today was the day.  Dr. Lecter was not terribly hopeful. According to the papers he'd been able to cadge from the guards, when they felt inclined to be nice to him, Argentina was hopeful for loans.  In order to get their money they would toss him to the Americans as a show of good faith.  He swallowed nervously as the judge came in and headed for his seat.  

                His court-appointed translator nudged him.  He'd asked for one, largely to annoy the authorities.  After eight years in Argentina his Spanish was excellent.  

                "Please rise, Dr. Lecter," the translator told him.  Dr. Lecter turned and observed the man.  He was an older, quiet man.  An expatriate American, who had lived down here for many years.  He was reasonably polite and civil to Dr. Lecter, who appreciated this.  

                The judge sat down and said something in Spanish.  Everyone else sat down, so Dr. Lecter did too.   He tensed his hands nervously.  Dr. Lecter did not think of escaping.  There were several burly guards standing around.  The Argentines were anxious to prove that they, too, could hold Dr. Lecter securely.  Trying to escape would simply get him a faceful of pepper spray.  

                "Good morning," the judge said.  The translator kept up a running translation into English for him, but Dr. Lecter could understand the judge perfectly well.  "I'm going to rule today on a motion from the prosecutor, supported by the American Department of Justice.  Specifically, the argument states that as a warrant has existed for arrest for a number of years, as well as the fact that the defendant has no legal status or right to be in Argentina.  Therefore, the argument states, Dr. Lecter's nationality is American, without question, and he should be turned over to the Americans without delay."  

                The judge cleared his throat.  Dr. Lecter sighed.  This was not going to be to his benefit.  

                "It is without question that the defendant is American," the judge continued.  "Fingerprints and DNA testing have verified that the defendant is Hannibal Lecter.  Moreover, the defense has not presented any type of legal proof that Dr. Lecter possessed any legal permission at all to live in Argentina.  Instead, the defense has largely focused on the fact that Dr. Lecter _might _be subject to the death penalty in an American trial.  While it is true that Argentine law does not permit that, we simply do not know if Dr. Lecter will be given the death penalty or not.  In fact, the conditions for Dr. Lecter's legal confinement in a psychiatric hospital exist already without any type of trial being necessary.  We cannot justify holding him back from justice based on maybes."  

                _No, _Dr. Lecter thought, _but you'll ship me back to the Americans based on money.  _

"After due research, I have concluded that this reading is correct.  Dr. Lecter is to be extradited to the United States of America immediately.  According to the terms of the extradition order, Dr. Lecter may be held in Argentina for such time as is necessary to make logistical arrangements for his secure transport back to the United States.  I will authorize Dr. Lecter's further detention for seven days in order for this to take place."  

                The gavel slammed down, sealing Dr. Lecter's fate.

                His attorneys urged him to his feet.  The guards came to behind him in order to shackle him and bring him back to his cell.  Dr. Lecter said nothing:  not to the tabloid reporters who thronged the steps of the courthouse, not to his attorneys, not even to his guards who took him carefully to his cell in the depths of the dungeons.  

                This was not good.  Hardly at all.  He had his own plans, but he wasn't ready yet.  And once he was in the United States, then he would be lost.  They would not make any of the same errors this time.  

                Dr. Lecter shook his head.  No, he had a few tricks up his sleeve yet.  But he needed just a bit of time.  Perhaps he could manage to do what he had once done before.    He would have to see.  

                A rat squeaked at him from where it was eating the remains of his breakfast.  Dr. Lecter looked at it and sighed.  

                "Hello, little fellow," Dr. Lecter told the rat.  "Would you like to come to the United States with me?"  

                The rat eyed him with beady eyes as if not trusting this promise.  

                "I'm more worried about Clarice than myself," he explained to the rat.  "Mr. Crawford's games are not fun to play, unless you're on his side."  

                The rat appeared unconcerned about Mr. Crawford.  It held the crust of bread between its paws and nibbled at it as delicately as any of Dr. Lecter's dinner guests ever had.  Dr. Lecter sidled a bit closer to it and reached out for it.  Its fur was surprisingly soft and clean.  Dr. Lecter petted the rat a few times calmly.  It was the only being in his world, he reflected, that didn't seem to have negative plans in store for him.  

                …

                For Clarice, things were looking slightly better.   Yesterday, a few other headshrinkers had come down to see her.  Amazingly, they _didn't _begin every sentence they said with _Isn't it true that.  _That alone endeared them to Clarice.  What had endeared her further to them was that they were interested in reviewing her security classification.    So she'd gone into the room with them and answered their questions.  

                They'd offered her a medium security classification.  She would be allowed to live upstairs with the other inmates.  She would have TV privileges and be allowed to stay up an hour later.  She would be allowed to socialize with the other unfortunates who had fallen into this place, so long as she behaved herself.  There were three things that Clarice found more to her liking, and that was why she had been interested.  She would get three phone calls per week instead of only one.  Ostensibly she would still be limited to ten minutes, but from what she'd heard from the orderlies they usually didn't hold to that unless someone else wanted to use the phone.  Having access to a phone was good.  

                The second thing was also important.  She'd get to move out of the basement.  The rooms upstairs were less cell-like.  It would be a more comfortable living environment, and less secure. She wasn't planning on escaping immediately, but she did want the chance to spy out the land.  She wasn't getting out of max, but she might be able to get out of medium.  

                And the third thing.  Limited outside privileges.  She'd be escorted by a member of the staff and was not allowed near the fence.  But still, she'd get to be outside.  She'd get to feel the sun on her skin.  Perhaps even the wind on her face.  For Clarice Starling, who had been locked away for the past few weeks, the idea was very exciting.  

                All she had to do to get it was to agree to continue with therapy.  _That _was easy.  She could fake it for McQuerry's benefit.  So she'd agreed, and they had let her move her meager possessions to a room upstairs.  Yesterday she'd gone outside for the first time since she'd been brought here.  Raul had gone with her, and she liked Raul.  He had made her a deal – he wouldn't hold onto her arm as long as she didn't try to escape.  If she did, he advised her, he'd have to tackle her and bring her in.  She'd been good.  It had been wonderful just to have the sun on her face.    

                Now, she was sitting in the TV room with the other women.  All except for the one who was still down in maximum security, she had to allow. She felt sorry for the other woman.  Locked down there in the depths, without even the chance for freedom for months.  But she was here and it was a lot better than maximum security.  

                The soap opera was boring, but it was still something to watch.  The other women stared at it with glassy eyes.  _They _seemed to eat it up.  Clarice suspected they were heavily medicated.  She'd tried to engage a few of them in conversation and gotten no luck.  

                One of the orderlies sitting at the main desk pressed a button.  The intercom crackled. 

                "Starling, get down here.  Therapy time."  

                Clarice sighed.  Well, it wasn't like she was that into _The Guiding Light.  _So she got up and ambled over to the gate.  Dr. McQuerry stood just beyond the gate. He had two orderlies with him.  He seemed to be a bit nervous.  What the heck was up?  Just another couple hours of _Isn't-it-true-Clarice.  _ 

                "Good afternoon, Clarice," he said prissily.  

                "Good afternoon, Dr. McQuerry," Clarice echoed.  "Is something wrong?"  

                He began to walk and gestured for Clarice to follow him.  She fell into step beside him.  Behind them, the orderlies, unspoken testaments to the force available in this institution.  

                "Well…we're going to try something different.  I'm afraid the talk therapy is not producing results as quickly as we might like."  

                Clarice felt misgivings probe her.  "I thought therapy was working well," she objected.  

                "Not fast enough.  You see, we need to move a bit…more quickly."  

                "It worked well enough to get me medium security," Clarice pointed out. 

                "Yes."  A door in their path rumbled open.  Clarice suddenly felt very isolated.  

                "You see, Clarice, we need you for something," Dr. McQuerry said.  

                One of the orderlies opened a white door on the left.  Dr. McQuerry gestured for Clarice to enter the room.  

                "And what would that be?" she asked, not entering immediately.  

                He cleared his throat uncomfortably.  "Please, just go in.  I'd hate to have to send you back down to maximum security on your first day out of the box."  He smiled humorlessly.  

                Clarice entered the room and saw a long, narrow gurney with some equipment clustered around it.  Her eyes widened.  She had a psych background.  She knew what this was.  Electroshock equipment.  

                "Whoa," she said.  "Hey now.  No one ever said anything about anything like this."  

                Dr. McQuerry closed the door.  And locked it.  Clarice started.  Almost immediately, one of the orderlies grabbed her arms from behind.  

                "Now, Clarice," Dr. McQuerry said, "I must remind you that conscientious compliance with your therapy is required for you to continue on medium security."  

                "Screw it, then," Clarice said breathlessly.  "Dr. McQuerry, I am _not _screwing around here.  I do _not _consent to this.  I want to talk to an attorney.  Now."  

                "I'm sorry, Clarice," Dr. McQuerry said.  "Now, lie on the gurney or the orderlies will force you to."  

                "No.  Absolutely not."  The next sentence came out of her mouth before she realized it.  "I want to call my niece," she said breathlessly.  

                "Later, maybe," Dr. McQuerry said.  "C'mon, Clarice."  

                She turned and tried to bolt for the door.  The orderly who had her arms clamped down.  Clarice jigged right, twisted one arm free, and buried her elbow in his gut.  He doubled over with a satisfying groan.  Clarice ran for the door and grabbed the stainless-steel knob with all her might.  

                But the other orderly grabbed her, and the first recovered enough to grab her ankles.  With both of them, she was lifted into the air and forced over to the gurney.  They forced her ankles down, and Dr. McQuerry strapped them down.  

                Clarice screamed piercingly, the sound echoing in the enclosed space.  

                But it was too late.   More straps served to pinion her body down.  She twisted and struggled as best she could, but eventually the superior force won out. As each leather strap was fastened down, she lost more and more of her own body.  

                Dr. McQuerry attempted to force a tongue pad between her teeth.  It took him a few tries to get it in, as Clarice was intent on biting him if the son of a bitch got close enough for her to catch him.  But eventually he did, buckling the strap behind her head.  

                She tried to yell _Son of a bitch, _but the tongue pad rendered it noise.  Dr. McQuerry ran a hand through his curly hair and attached an electrode to her temple.

                This wasn't therapy.  Modern electroshock took place with the patient sedated and unconscious.  This was sheer, fucking torture. Something out of the Inquisition.  What the red fuck was all this about?  _Son of a bitch goddam motherfucker when I get my hands on you—_

Dr. McQuerry cranked the dial on the electroshock machine all the way over.  Clarice's eyes flashed at him.  For a moment, her eyes telegraphed fear instead of anger.  

                "Dnt dddd thss," Clarice said.  

                McQuerry sighed.  "Clarice, for what it's worth, I'm sorry," he said.  "It's not how I would have done this.  But this…this comes from higher authority than me.  My hands are tied."  

                Clarice's eyes widened.  She wriggled fruitlessly on the gurney she was bound to.  

                Dr. McQuerry pressed the button on the shock machine.  A muffled scream arose from the tongue pad.  Clarice's body arched.  Overhead, the lights dimmed.  Her eyes flew wide open.  Her body bucked against the straps.  

                A few minutes later, Dr. McQuerry hit the button again.  And again.  By the fourth time, Clarice had lost consciousness.  


	9. Conspiracy Theory

Author's note:  For those of you who were wondering, rats are not dirty animals – they groom themselves up to six times a day, like cats.  I had pet rats in college. They're nice animals to keep as pets.  

Over the next few days, Clarice Starling began to learn what fear really was.  

She would spend her days in the dayroom, hoping for some sort of protection in huddling with the herd.  It never worked.  McQuerry would find her and drag her into the electroshock room for her daily torture.  It didn't make sense.  He didn't seem to want anything.  He didn't want her to say anything or behave better or fetch his slippers.  Instead, he simply seemed intent on continuing the electroshock.  

                Clarice had been in frightening situations before.  She'd been in gunfights.  She'd arrested people who would slit your throat as soon as look at you.  And of course, she'd confronted Hannibal Lecter in his basement cell all those years ago.  But this was more frightening.  She had someone who simply seemed intent on destroying her mind.  He didn't want anything from her.  He didn't seem to have anything against her, either.  But every day, it was _Starling to therapy.  _  Inescapable and inevitable.  

                She had tried resistance.  It didn't work.  There were plenty of orderlies around, and McQuerry called on them when he needed to.  Bizarrely, she found herself believing that it wasn't him.  He actually seemed to be somewhat sorry about it, misplaced and vague regret like the sort one feels when one has stepped on a companion's foot two months ago.  He hadn't busted her back down to maximum security.  And he could have done _that _in a heartbeat.  No, this wasn't McQuerry getting his jollies.  

                She tried to figure it out.  But it was hard, knowing that she was on a time limit.   As the clock ticked down to two o'clock, her heart would begin to pound.  She would try sidling away from the herd, seeing if she could make it back to her room.  What was worse was that she knew resistance would be futile.  But still.  Who would do this?  Crawford?  It was possible, she supposed.  Why would Crawford want to do this to her, though?  Wouldn't he want her testifying against Dr. Lecter?  Or was that it, to torture her into doing Crawford's bidding?  Still, it didn't make sense, and she could not think.  Not with the hour hand slowly ticking away at her fate.  The room of pain and fear awaited her.  

                So she sat there in the dayroom, her eyes wide with low-grade terror.  She cowered in the midst of the drugged women watching soap operas.  _Please, can they pass me up this time?  Please? Not today.  I can't take it today. Can I be bad and go back down to maximum security?  At least they didn't do this to me there.  _  But she knew that going down to max would not help.  She'd have Raul, but that would be it – the electroshock would continue.

                The intercom buzzed.  "Starling," a mechanical voice from the speaker overhead buzzed.  Clarice cringed.  It was one-thirty!  That wasn't…wasn't fair!  She had half an hour left before…before…, 

                "Starling, get your ass down here," the voice came again.  

                Clarice hunched down on the bench she was sitting on and tried to look invisible.  Part of her hated the cowardice she was exhibiting.  But she was frightened.  It was one thing to be brave when your bravery made a difference.  But this…this was as senseless as it was inevitable.   She couldn't help but be afraid.  They were going to waste her as assuredly as they had wasted John Brigham.  

                The gate buzzed open.  An orderly came in.  Not Raul; just another one of the soulless troopers who provided this place with its muscle.  Clarice didn't know his name.  He strode over to her purposefully and glared at her.  

                "Starling, dammit," he said, "you deaf?"  

                "It ain't time," Clarice whimpered, and felt a burst of anger at herself.  "I still got half an hour."  

                "It's not time for therapy," he said, exasperated.  "You got a visitor."  

                Clarice's eyes lit up.  Was it Charlene?  Please let it be Charlene.  They wouldn't hurt her while Charlene was here.  If it was fucking Crawford she'd tear his eyeballs out.  But Charlene would keep her safe.  

                _My ass she will, Clarice, _she told herself sourly.  _She's on their side.  _

But wait.  Maybe that was it. Maybe Charlene could help her anyway.  

                So she went through the door into the visiting room.  Medium security had some advantages.  The visiting room had a window.  They would be alone.  An orderly would be posted to watch, just in case Clarice decided to throttle her niece, but the door would be closed.  They would have privacy.  

                Charlene was sitting there already.  The room was decently furnished, with a table and padded chairs.  Her pleasant smile turned to a slight expression of surprise as Clarice entered.  That didn't surprise Clarice.  She was getting shocked every day.  She was _supposed _to look like hell.  

                "Hi, Aunt Clarice," Charlene said softly.  

                "Hi, Charlene," Clarice echoed.  

                "So how do you like medium security?"  Charlene asked.  "Must be nicer than down in the basement."  

                Clarice looked back and forth.  Any listening devices?  She'd have to take the chance.  

                "Charlene," she said urgently.  "Listen.  I need your help.  Something really weird is going on here.  They're torturing me."  

                Charlene sighed resignedly.  She nodded slowly.  Clarice's eyes narrowed.  

                "They're _torturing _you?" Charlene asked.  Her tone was patient, as one might take to a child who insists there is a monster under his bed.  

                "Yes," Clarice affirmed.  "They've been doing electroshock on me.  Every day."  

                Charlene nodded slowly.  "Aunt Clarice, ECT isn't torture," she said slowly.  "It's bona fide therapy when medication don't work.  But it's humane.  They put you to sleep for it.  You just wake up with a headache.  Now, Mr. Crawford told me about this, and I think you need to--," 

                Clarice leaned forward.  "Mr. Crawford told you what?" 

                Charlene swallowed.  "Aunt Clarice, c'mon, I don't know if we should go there."  

                _Oh yes we should, kiddo, _Clarice thought.  "I won't get mad, honey," she said calmly.  "I promise."  

                Charlene swallowed.  She looked at her aunt dubiously, as if she was a mad dog who might leap to attack at any moment.  

                "Mr. Crawford told me that they'd moved you to medium security," she recited slowly.  "An' that..that you were having triggers.  Triggers that…well…that Dr. Lecter put there."  

                Clarice sighed.  Anger welled up in her and she forced it away.  It _was _Crawford.  She knew it.  She would hold back for Charlene's sake.  She needed the younger woman's help.  

                "Triggers?" she asked.  

                Charlene nodded.  Her discomfiture was clear on her face.  She didn't want to fight.  

                "Yes," she said faintly.  "Once they started givin' you better conditions and easing up on you, Dr. Lecter had put these triggers in your mind, you see.  So you'd have delusions and nightmares about being tortured.  To get in the way of making you better."  

                Clarice closed her eyes and felt tears well up.  Had Crawford sealed up her niece that tight?  Was she willing to hear Clarice out?   Perhaps it was hopeless.  Perhaps Charlene would continue listening to whatever Crawford filled her head with right up until it was over.  

                "They're not delusions and nightmares, Charlene," Clarice said softly.  "They're real.  It's really happening."  

                Charlene exhaled slowly, clearly thinking her aunt was a fruitcake and not wanting to say it.  

                "Aunt Clarice," she said deliberately, "I know it must _seem _real.  But you gotta think about this and see it for what it is.  It ain't real.  It's just something Dr. Lecter put in your mind."  

                "It's real," Clarice said.  Charlene opened her mouth to protest.  Clarice plunged on.  

                "Charlene, look at me," she said.  "Do I look better to you?  This is _real_, Charlene.  They are really torturing me.  They're not gonna stop until I'm some kind of…burnt out vegetable."  Tears welled in her eyes and her voice thickened.  "Listen…I'm really glad you came, because I missed you, but also because since you came they're not gonna zap me yet.  And I know I'm gonna cry when you leave, because it's only when you're here that they won't hurt me."  

                She saw answering tears in her niece's eyes.  It was hard for her to make her niece cry, but she had little choice.  Charlene had to see.  

                "Aunt Clarice," Charlene said, a bit choked up herself, "You gotta realize.  This _ain't real.  _It's just in your mind.  Mr. Crawford said--," 

                "Just cause Mr. Crawford said something doesn't mean it's true," Clarice said.  "Was it Mr. Crawford who came and saved you from McCracken?  No, that was me."  The wounded look in Charlene's eyes was like a knife in Clarice's chest, but she pressed on.  She put her hand over her niece's to pad the blow.  "I was there for you.  I saved you.  Now I need you, Charlene."  She leaned in.  

                "I know you've got to be good at what you do," she said.  "You had to have been.  No schlump could've caught Dr. Lecter.  Hell, _I _never caught him, and I think I was pretty good.  You _know _something isn't right about this.  Look at it like a case.  You can _see _what's going on.  I know you can.  Don't just mindlessly listen to Crawford.  He's not telling you everything.  Just what'll make you be a good, cooperative little girl for him."

                Charlene looked away.  Her mouth worked.  

                "But…but…why would they do this?" she asked.  "They put you on medium security.  If they were gonna torture you into doing what they wanted, then why not leave you down in maximum security?  Wouldn't have been no problem and no one would've seen a blessed thing."  

                That was the one thing Clarice had not been able to figure out.  As she observed her disbelieving niece, suddenly it all became clear.  All the pieces fell into place with a neat click.  

                "Because of you," she whispered.  

                Charlene blinked at her and shook her head in disbelief.  "Me?  What do I have to do with it?"  

                "Everything," Clarice said.  "If they kept me down in max, you might have believed it.  But _they _don't want you to.  They want you to think I'm a nut case just spouting off."  She chuckled and looked away.  "'How could we be torturing her when she just made it into medium security?  It's just a trigger.  Something Dr. Lecter put in her head.'" she mimicked.   A vague memory of an arrest in Newark occurred to her.  The gentleman she'd arrested had explained that he needed to own machine guns in order to keep the aliens from abducting him again.  He'd sported an aluminum-foil beanie, Clarice remembered.  

                _Please don't think I'm a nut, Charlene, _she pleaded mentally.  

                "Who's _they?"_ Charlene asked, not unreasonably.  

                "McQuerry and…and Crawford," Clarice said.  "McQuerry's only a tool.  Doin what somebody bigger told him to do.  You know the type."  

                Charlene sighed.  She spread her hands.  "Why?  Why would they do this to you?  What's their goal in all this?  Don't make no sense."  

                "Did something change with Dr. Lecter?" Clarice asked.  

                Charlene crossed her arms and shook her head resolutely.  "Aunt Clarice, I cain't tell you that.  No way.  Crawford would have my ass--," 

                "So Crawford told you that you can't tell me something that's gonna be in the paper in a couple of days?  C'mon, Charlene.  You know better." 

                Clarice trembled.  Yes, here it was.  The moment of truth in which problems suddenly resolve themselves.  She was surprised she hadn't seen it before.  

                "That's it, Charlene, isn't it?  Dr. Lecter is coming back pretty soon.  They thought they might be able to make me testify against him or something, work against him at his trial.  But now that ain't happening and they don't have time.  So they're gonna roll me in the courtroom in a wheelchair, drooling on myself and wetting my pants, and they're gonna say 'Look.  Look what he did to her.  Now she's this wreck.'  Except it wasn't him who did this to me.  That's about it, isn't it?"  

                Charlene stared at her aunt, incredulous.  "Aunt Clarice, now why the heck would they want to do that?  We've got enough evidence on Dr. Lecter to put him away ten times over.  Even if we didn't have squats he goes back to the asylum."  She began ticking off on her fingers.  "But we can get him for Mason Verger – he confessed to that one on the phone, for Crissakes.  We can get him for Donnie Barber.  You did that one, remember?  And Pembry and Boyle – those are capital murder charges down in Tennessee.   And Lloyd Wyman.  With all that, why would there be this conspiracy to drive you nuts?"  

                It would sound weak, Clarice knew, the weakness of a woman in despair.  A crazy woman inventing enemies to explain why she was in the loony bin.  But it was the truth.  And God help her if Charlene didn't believe.  

                "Because," Clarice whispered.  "I crossed Jack Crawford.  I left the FBI to be with Dr. Lecter.  He'll never forgive me for that."  

                Charlene Starling stared into her aunt's face.  She thought Clarice looked pretty rough.  She was pale and trembling.  She seemed to be all eyes, wide terror-eyes.  On her temple was a funny looking red mark.  Charlene's eyes narrowed and she found herself wondering when ECT was used and when it wasn't.

                Was she crazy?  Mr. Crawford had told her that morning that Aunt Clarice had been suffering from triggers.  Dr. Lecter had deliberately planted these mental time bombs to go off if Clarice had ever been in therapy to mess up her healing.  Once Clarice had gotten more privileges, off went the triggers and she was delusional.  Nightmares, Crawford had explained to her.  They'd be very vivid and very real.  Dr. Lecter knew exceptionally well how to mess up someone's mind.  

                Would Crawford _really _try and reduce her aunt to a vegetable just to convict a man who already had tons of evidence against him?  Charlene shuddered to think about it.  No.  It couldn't be.  But then again, it was an article of faith in Behavioral Science that the last agent who'd committed a Full Fuck-Up in Crawford's command had been exiled to investigate thefts along the DEW line in Alaska.  

                "I'll look into it," she promised her aunt, and stood up.  

                Aunt Clarice grabbed her arm and looked at her.  Charlene was struck by the despair and terror in her eyes.  Was this the same woman who had risked her own life for Charlene's all those years ago?  It hardly seemed so, but there it was. 

                "No, wait," Clarice said breathlessly.  "Please, Charlene.  Visiting hours are until five.  Stay with me.  Please?"  

                Should she feed her aunt's delusions of persecution or not?  It couldn't hurt.  She had little to do these days.  Mostly she was puttering around in the office pretending to clean up the Lecter file.  She could afford to indulge her aunt.  Maybe it would make her realize.  Crawford wouldn't let her spend the afternoon visiting if he was out to fry Aunt Clarice's brain, would he?  

                So she smiled and sat down again.  She patted her aunt's arm.  

                "OK, Aunt Clarice," she said.  "I'll stay.  Sure."  

                Clarice smiled gratefully at her.  Charlene felt vaguely uneasy.  Something had seemed to break in her aunt.    

                "I need your help, Charlene," Clarice whispered.  

                Charlene sighed.  Crawford would give her holy hell for it, but she would do what she could.  

                "I'll talk to an attorney," she said.  "I know a guy who's done some psychiatric work.  I'll call him, see about getting you a hearing--," 

                Clarice shook her head.  "There isn't time," she said in what was almost a whimper.  "At least I don't think there is.  It'll take a month or so to get a hearing.  By that time I'll be fried."  She smiled with desperate gallows humor.  

                "Nobody's frying anybody," Charlene said.  "Well, then what do you want me to do?"  

                "Get me out of here," Clarice responded.  

                Charlene stopped and stared at her aunt deliberately.  

                "Aunt Clarice," she said calmly, "I'm in the FBI.  I can't just bust you out of here.  Besides, you're here voluntarily.  Sign out."  

                Clarice chuckled.  "It's not like that, Charlene."  

                "Yes it is! Sign out.  G'wan.  Out you go."  

                "They won't let me out," Clarice repeated.  "They'll keep me in here and dope me up and fry my brain.  Charlene, look."  She put her hands on her niece's.  "You gotta help me," she said.  "I know it's a lot, but if you don't help me, there ain't gonna be anything left to help."    

                Charlene took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  

                "I'll do what I can, Aunt Clarice," she said judiciously.  

                For the next few hours they chatted of small things. Clarice described what she did like about medium security – her room had a window.  There was a thick screen of cyclone fencing bolted over the window, but still it was a window and Clarice could open it if she scootched her fingers through the fencing.  She had outside privileges and liked those.  Therapy, however, was a euphemism for torture.  No matter what, Clarice stuck to this religiously. It made her niece wonder. Charlene noticed the way her aunt cringed whenever the orderly shot her an annoyed look.  Was this merely delusion?  Mr. Crawford said it was, but she had to wonder.  And why was there a mark on Aunt Clarice's temple?  

                When five o'clock came, the orderly made Charlene leave.  Clarice was grateful for the time she'd had away from the chamber of horrors, and so she choked back her tears to hug her niece good-bye.  She went obediently back to the dayroom, and it was there she broke down and cried, awaiting the hideous call:  _Starling to therapy.  _

                Charlene Stenson Starling walked back to her car, lost in a funk of thought.  On one hand, her boss and Clarice's psychiatrist, both telling her that this was a woman suffering previous damage deliberately put there by a sociopathic madman.  On the other, her aunt, who had almost lost her life in saving Charlene's, convinced beyond the shadow of a doubt that it was her fate to be tortured into insensibility. 

                Who was telling the truth?  Charlene was not sure.  But there was a feeling she had that she recognized, a dawning recognition.  It was the way she'd felt the day when she discovered a Buenos Aires wine dealer had sold a bottle of Chateau d'Yquem to an Argentine gentleman eight weeks ago.  

                Charlene did not know who was telling the truth.  But she knew how she could find out. 


	10. Woman on a Mission

                It was early morning in the gray corridors of Behavioral Sciences.  Charlene was the only one there.  It had been this way countless times.  She'd arrived early and stayed late in her desperate year-long search for Dr. Lecter.   She had always liked the morning quiet. It allowed her to get a lot more done.  No one sticking their head in her office.  No one in the halls.  Just Charlene.  

                And so it was now.  It was six in the morning, and Charlene knew she wouldn't be alone for long.  She stuck her head out the hall and glanced down at the office at the end of the hall.  _JACK CRAWFORD _was on the nameplate.  Charlene tapped her fingers nervously.  

                Well, it would just be a _look.  _Couldn't hurt to look, could it?  

                Charlene took a CD-ROM from her desk drawer and sat down at her own computer.  She'd gone on the Internet last night and surfed around until she'd figured out how to do what she wanted. Charlene knew computers fairly well.  It hadn't been that hard.  She tested it in her own computer and nodded.  It worked.  Then she walked down the hall and stood in front of Jack Crawford's inner sanctum.  

                He wasn't there. In his time, he'd been a workaholic, coming in at six and leaving at nine.  These days he usually came in around seven-thirty or eight.  Charlene tried his door.  It was unlocked.  

                The office was neat, almost military.  On his desk was a picture of his late wife.  There were a few wanted posters on the walls.  They were all serial killers Jack Crawford had successfully hunted.  One of them was Dr. Hannibal Lecter's.  Noted on the poster in red magic marker were Dr. Lecter's original capture date and the date of his recapture.  The date of his recapture noted that he had been _recaptured by_ _Agent Charlene Starling.  _Charlene pressed her lips together at that.  A mark of appreciation in his inner sanctum made her feel guilty about this.  Maybe Crawford was right.  Maybe Aunt Clarice was just…well, not wrong.  Suffering from delusions.  

                But she had to know.  And this was the easiest way of finding out.  

                From her pocket, Charlene withdrew a pair of latex gloves.   She'd taken these from the evidence labs.  No one would think anything of that; she had to handle evidence occasionally too.  She put the CD-ROM in the drive and turned the computer on.  

                Instead of Windows 2000 appearing on the monitor, the PC flashed a bright spear of light at her once and then the monitor turned black.  There were no friendly icons there.  Instead she saw only the cryptic prompt: 

                C:\ 

                Her ears pricked.  Was someone coming?  She had to finish this quickly.  Fortunately, she needed little time to accomplish what she wanted.  Charlene typed _dir.  _A list of files and folders scrolled up the screen.  Was it here?  Wait…there it was.  NTLDR.  The NT loader file.  

                Charlene typed _rename NTLDR NTLDC.  _Then she held her breath.  Would this work?  Charlene thought it would.  

                She got no error message, just another C prompt.  Good.  She typed _dir _again and verified it.  There was no more file called NTLDR.  There _was _a file called NTLDC.  Charlene grinned.  She'd read somewhere that there were 37 million lines of code in Windows 2000.  And all it took to bring everything to a screeching halt was one itty-bitty little letter.  

                "G'bye," she told the file.  Then she took her CD out of the drive and left the office swiftly.  There was her bait.  Now she just had to wait a little bit and see if Crawford took it. She thought that he might.  

                She puttered around, making a few more notations on the Lecter file.  A cup of coffee and the Internet served to amuse her until she heard the clicking of a cane coming from the elevator.  Crawford leaned into her office.  

                "Morning, Starling," he said.  

                "Good morning, sir," Charlene said, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.  

                _C'mon, go to your office, _Charlene thought.  

                She heard him enter his office.  _Tick tick tick, _she thought.  She tensed nervously.  Never had she ever _thought _of committing perfidy like this.  Jack Crawford had done a lot to help her career.  That was not in denial. But she didn't feel guilty at all about it. Instead, she just wanted things to get done.  

                "Goddam computers," she heard him grumble.  "What the hell is this?"  

                _Tick tick BOOM, _Charlene thought, and grinned.  

                She heard him bang on the keyboard.  _Fat lot of good that'll do you, Mr. Crawford, sir, _she thought sarcastically.  But now it was time to play Helpful Young Person to the Rescue.  Charlene got up, pulled her hair back into a thick ponytail, and waited outside Crawford's door.   She let him cuss and swear a bit more.  Pretty tame, really.  

                "Something wrong, Mr. Crawford?" she said.  

                Crawford scowled at his computer and gestured at it with a hand.  "Look at this," he said.  "What is this?  'Cannot find NTLDR.  Hit any key to restart.'  I can't get my email.  And it'll take hours to get someone from IT down here."  

                "What happens when you hit a key?" Charlene asked sweetly.  

                "The same thing," Crawford grumbled.  

                Charlene nodded.  "I'll have a look at it, if you like," she said.  

                Crawford shrugged.  "I gotta make a few phone calls," he said.  

                "Oh, I'll take it back to my office," Charlene assured him.  "I won't break it, Mr. Crawford.  Let me have a go at it.  Won't cost you a thing."  

                She waited and watched Crawford carefully.  _C'mon, _she thought.  _C'mon c'mon c'mon.  _  

                He gestured at the computer.  "Sure," he said desultorily.  

                Charlene scurried back to her office and returned with her office chair.  She loaded the murdered PC onto it and prepared to roll it back to her office for a little hacking.  Casually, almost as an afterthought, she asked, "Oh, by the way, can I get your password, sir?"  

                Crawford's eyes narrowed at her.  "My _password? _What do you want that for?"  

                "Just to test your PC," Charlene assured him.  "I'll give it right back, then you can change it to whatever you want.   I just want to make sure that, um, your BIOS isn't conflicting with your VxD drivers, cause then it'll hose your registry."  

                Crawford eyed her.  Was he buying it?  Charlene stood there and looked as innocent as she could. 

                "I guess hosing the registry is bad," he said finally.  

                "Very bad, Mr. Crawford," she assured him.  

                "Fine.  Username is jcrawford, and my password is 'bella', b-e-l-l-a."  

                "Okay," she said.  "Lemme have a look at it, Mr. Crawford.  Give me half an hour.  I think I can get it up and running."  

                "Have fun," Crawford said, and eyed her carefully.  She struggled to look innocent and met his gaze.  

                "How's your aunt doing?" he asked.  

                Charlene paused.  "She's all right," she said calmly.  "She's still having some triggers."  

                Crawford nodded.  "They're helping her, Starling.  You know that, right?"  

                "Yes, sir," she said.  

                Then she rolled the PC back to her office.  It took a few moments to connect Crawford's computer to her monitor, keyboard, and mouse.  She shut down her computer, pulled the plug out of the network drop, and plugged in Crawford's.  

                It took only a few seconds to boot up with the CD-ROM and rename the file back to NTLDR.  Then Charlene took the CD out and restarted the PC.  The familiar colors of Windows 2000 came to life on the computer.  Charlene typed Crawford's username and password.  The computer thought for a moment and then obediently displayed icons.  

                _Charlene is on a roll, Charlene has got control.  _She opened up Crawford's email.  He had tons of it.  After scanning a few, she realized most of them were just noise.  Nothing there.  

                A few emails from _McQuerry, Raymond _caught her eye.   That date was a week ago.  Was Mr. Crawford checking up on Aunt Clarice?  That made sense.  She clicked on it to open it up.  

                _From:  McQuerry, Raymond_

_                To: Jack Crawford_

_                Subject: Clarice Starling _

_             Mr. Crawford, I got your mail.  I am sorry to say that Clarice is largely resistant to therapy.  She continues to maintain that Dr. Lecter did not brainwash her and that she was happy with him.  I know you want her to possibly testify at the trial, but it would take several more months of therapy.  _

Hmm.   So he _had _been checking up on Aunt Clarice, and with something other than her own interests at heart.  Her aunt's words echoed in her mind.  _Don't make any mistakes about Jack Crawford.  He has his own goals.  Always has.  _

There was another email from Lloyd Bowman.  She knew Lloyd.  He'd been part of Mr. Crawford's team for years.  He seemed pretty decent.  Carefully, she clicked on that, feeling like a spy.  Here she was, seeing something she had a feeling she wasn't supposed to see.  

                _From: Lloyd Bowman _

_                To: Jack Crawford _

_                Jack, _

_                I know you're annoyed with Clarice, but I really have to ask if this is the right thing to do.  I mean, it's not like we need her to get to Lecter.  It's really just a question of whether we try Lecter for murder or whether they just send him back to the asylum.  Are you sure this is the right thing to do?  Does she really deserve that? _

Charlene tensed.  Oh boy.  Was this true?  She bit her lip and stared at the screen.  At the bottom of the list of folders was Crawford's 'Sent Items' folder.  She clicked on that.   Here were all the mails he had sent out.  She saw McQuerry's name and tensed.  She clicked on it and gasped.  

                _From: Jack Crawford _

_                To: McQuerry, Raymond _

_                Subject:  Starling _

_                Dr. McQuerry, we've rolled the dice here.  We've given her a chance; if she chose to blow it that's her lookout.  Go to special measures as we discussed on the phone.  I'll cover you if you need it.  _

_                Don't worry about Charlene Starling.  She works for me.  As long as Clarice is promoted to medium security and stays there Charlene shouldn't be much of a problem.  I'll keep on her from my end.  All you have to do is deny it and she'll buy the triggers story.  _

_                Jack Crawford _

Horror washed over Charlene like a wave of dirty water.  She stared at the screen and shook her head.  Her hand covered her mouth as she read.  Her blue eyes stared wide at the screen in shock and horror.  

                For several minutes she stared at the screen mutely.  Then it occurred to her there was someplace that Crawford would not follow her.  She got up and left the room quickly.  

                The ladies' room was a calm oasis of sanity.  Charlene locked herself in a stall and sat down.  The horrible, unbelievable truth hit her.  

                Jack Crawford _had _planned to torture her aunt into insanity.  Jack Crawford had fed her a line of bull from the start.   She had hunted down Dr. Lecter for him, believing him guilty of her aunt's murder.  He had _known _Aunt Clarice was alive.  She had believed him when he told her Aunt Clarice would get help.  She had believed him when he had told her Aunt Clarice was suffering from triggers. 

                Jack Crawford had used her.  Everything she had believed, everything she had worked for…none of it was true.  It was all a lie.  Next thing would be that Dr. Lecter was innocent.  

                Charlene felt nausea rise up into her throat and swiftly turned around.  Her breakfast came up hard from her stomach into the bowl.  She gripped the porcelain sides, her head spinning.  What was next?  What could she possibly be expected to give up now?  

                After a few minutes, she rose, left the stall, and rinsed out her mouth.   Her pale, trembling visage in the mirror was not promising.  A splash of cold water on her face made her feel less like she was going to faint.  

                She went back to her office and sat for a few minutes before turning off Crawford's computer.  Dear God, how was she supposed to _look _at him the same way?  What was she going to do about Aunt Clarice?  

                After a few minutes of sitting and trembling, it came to her.  She packed up Crawford's computer and returned it to him.  He turned from where he was on the phone and covered the mouthpiece with one hand.  

                "All fixed?" he asked. 

                Charlene nodded.  "Bad swap file," she said, the first thing that came to mind.  

                "Thanks."  Those hooded laser eyes swept over her, taking her measure.  What was he planning now?  

                "You don't look too good, Starling," he said.  "Is something wrong?"  

                _No, not at all, you lousy bastard, I just found out you're planning to fry my aunt's brain and that you used me.  _

"I'm…feeling a little funny," Charlene said tonelessly.  "I was thinking.  John Jay Library's still got the Lecter exhibit.  We may need it for his trial.  I was thinking about getting out there and arranging it to come back here."  

                He nodded.  "Sounds fine, Starling," he said.  "Been talking to the Air Force.  Dr. Lecter's coming back in three days.  We're sending a little jet down there to get him.  You know we wouldn't have caught him without you, right?"   

                Charlene nodded and fled from his chamber before she either puked again or shot him or both.  

                She did not go to the library at first.  She had different plans. A mission.  Having a mission gave her the ability to function.  She could concentrate on what she needed to do and ignore the fact that her life was swiftly falling apart. 

First, she went to a Home Depot first and bought two things.  Then to an army-navy store, where she picked up a couple more things.  Then, after changing clothes in the Mustang, she headed to the asylum.  

                Aunt Clarice was happy to see her, and they went back into the visiting room.  After chatting for a while, Charlene excused herself to the bathroom.  The asylum's bathroom was like any other, except for the fact that there was a thick metal screen over the window and the mirrors were polished steel rather than glass.  

                Charlene studied the metal screen.  There were four stout steel bolts driven into the corners holding it onto the window.  Was Aunt Clarice's room similar?  She thought it would be.  The real loonies were kept downstairs in more secure quarters.   Or over at Quantico in the subterranean depths, Charlene supposed. 

                She didn't need to use the bathroom.  Instead, she jumped up on the toilet and touched the dropped ceiling.  The pane of sheet rock moved aside easily.  Charlene stuck a bundle up in the dropped ceiling and replaced the tile.  It seemed to hold.  Good. 

                She returned to the visiting room.  Her aunt seemed nervous.  That made sense; she was probably afraid they would come fry her brain while Charlene was away.   The vicious bastards.  Charlene found herself unsure if she wanted to scream or cry or what.  

                "Charlene, honey, is something wrong?" Clarice asked.  

                 Charlene smiled joylessly.  "No," she said.  "Yes.  Hell, everything."  She looked back and forth as if expecting someone to eavesdrop.  

                Aunt Clarice looked at her with some concern.  "What's going on?  I mean, you can tell me."  

                Charlene shook her head.  "It's OK," she said indifferently.  "But you know, at the rate things are going I'll be in the padded cell next to yours."  

                Clarice leaned forward and put her hand on her niece's.  She did it often in visits because it was one of the few signs of affection she was allowed to show.  She looked troubled for Charlene's sake.  Charlene felt herself shot through with guilt.  After everything Aunt Clarice had done for her, Charlene had let those sickos throw her in the loony bin and shock her.  What was next?  

                "Tell me what's wrong, Charlene," Clarice said.  

                Charlene shook her head.  "It'll all be right," she said.  "Well, most of it, anyway.  Listen, Aunt Clarice, I got to go."  She rose.  A bolt of alarm shot through Aunt Clarice's features.  Charlene knew what it was for.  Therapy time.  Well, it was only one more time.  Then she would be free forever.  

                They were allowed one hug at the end of the visit, and took advantage of it.  Charlene grabbed her aunt tight and put her mouth next to Aunt Clarice's ear.  

                "Before you go to bed," she said deliberately, "go to the bathroom.  Middle stall.  Look in the dropped ceiling.  See you at 2:30 tonight."  

                As she let her go, she could see a new sort of surprise come over Aunt Clarice's face, mixed with a dawning look of hope.  

                Charlene pressed her lips together.  She had to concentrate on her mission.  Otherwise she would start thinking about how cruelly both she and Aunt Clarice had been used and they'd _both _end up in the loony bin.  At this point a nice padded cell seemed like a good idea.  Everything she'd tried to do had just screwed everything up.  In a cell she wouldn't be able to hurt anyone else.  But she couldn't crack. Not yet.  Not until her mission was complete.  


	11. Escape

                Ten-thirty at Greenwood Psychiatric Hospital was quiet.  The lone maximum-security inmate had been obliged to go to bed at nine PM.  The better behaved were allowed to stay up until ten.  But now all was quiet, the patients locked in their rooms for the night.  The orderlies were supposed to make rounds every fifteen minutes.  In actuality, they usually let the patients sleep, only checking on them every hour or so.  That was just how Clarice liked it.  

                After dinner, she had crept into the bathroom and found the bundle Charlene had left for her in the bathroom.  She had hidden it under the loose shirt of her institutional pajamas and smuggled it into her room.  Thankfully, medium security allowed her to go to her room, the bathroom, and the TV room as she liked.  There was one good thing to all this.  

                'Therapy' had been hard, as it always was, but Clarice had faced it with newfound strength.  It was the _last _time.  That made it possible for her to get through it.  She'd woken up in her room, as usual, with a headache and a vague, free-floating terror.    Then she'd gone in and gotten the bundle from the bathroom.  

                Black SWAT BDU pants.  A long-sleeved black T-shirt.  A pair of boots.  A digital watch.  That was useful; like all the unfortunates caught in the web of Greenwood, Clarice was obligated to give her watch to the orderlies at night, lest she try to break the watch crystal and commit suicide with the shards.  Most importantly, a pair of locking pliers – Vise Grip brand, Clarice noticed, not the cheap tools.  A flashlight, a nail file, a can of WD-40, and a wire cutter finished the ensemble for today's fashionable nuthatch escapee.   

                Everything was now hidden in her bed under her sheets.  The wire cutter and flashlight were under her pillow.  She stood by her window with the locking pliers in hand.  They were heavy and well-made.  If she needed a weapon they'd do pretty good.  

                But for now her victim was the first of four bolts holding her screen on.  It was tough going.  The bolt and screen had been painted.  Plus, she allowed, the bolt had been in there for probably fifty years or so.  She was thankful that the bolt was big enough for the pliers to get a good grip, and they didn't slip once they were locked down.  

                Still, it was far from a cakewalk.  She'd been worried foremost about what her incarceration would do to her mind.  The image of being here for the next twenty years, broken in spirit and damaged in brain, was absolutely terrifying.  How much damage had McQuerry and his torture done to her?  She didn't know.   She had trouble remembering things.  The idea that she might already be brain-damaged was very, very frightening.  Clarice Starling had lived by her wits and her mind for almost her entire life.  The thought of having that deliberately damaged frightened her very, very deeply.  

                But now, she had something to concentrate on.  _C'mon, _she thought.  _Let's get Mr. Bolt out of Mr. Wall here and get Miss Clarice the hell out of this torture chamber.  _

She forced all her weight against the bolt.  Her muscles trembled.  Sweat arose on her brow.  Had it moved?  No, damn thing was frozen.    She had to scratch the paint off the damn thing and try the WD-40.    

                Using the nail file like a tiny saw got her through the paint.  She spritzed it down with WD-40.  She tried again.  Was someone coming? She'd have to jump in bed real quick and pretend to be asleep.  Finally, the bolt began to move.  Clarice hurried as fast as she could and managed to get the first bolt out of the wall.  Long sucker, too.  She stuffed it under her bed.  

                The sound of approaching footsteps warned her to hop into bed.  She shoved the pliers under the pillow, lay on the bed and closed her eyes.  Precious minutes were stealing by.  She checked her watch tensely.  Was it eleven already?  Still, she only had to be out by two-thirty.  That gave her plenty of time to defeat the other bolts.  

                Once the footsteps were gone, she figured she had another hour before they checked again.  She attacked the second bolt with newfound strength.  Getting _out _of here.  Had to get out. Got to get out.  

                It took time.  The second and third bolts were harder to free.  She had to jump in bed every hour and lost about ten minutes to that.  She could feel herself growing weaker as she went on.  Her arms screamed at her.  The bolts started out impossible to turn.  For several minutes she would yank, pull, and curse.  A few times she thought it was impossible; that she would end up trapped here.  And in the morning she'd go back down to maximum security.  

                The thought of _that _was enough to give her enough strength.  Finally, it was done.  The fourth bolt was out.  Carefully, Clarice leaned the screen so that it would stay there.  She jumped into bed for the final time.  This time, she wriggled out of the pajamas and into the uniform Charlene had left her.  Once the footsteps of the orderly had receded, she felt a bolt of pure joy race through her.  She was going to be _free. _

                The screen made a little bit of racket as she lifted it away and tossed it on the grass.  It took her a moment to wriggle out of the window and drop to the ground outside.  She arranged the screen as best she could.  Then she turned.  The hard part hadn't been breaking out of the building.  The hard part was that there was at least ten miles of country between here and civilization.  Escapees would either starve to death in the woods or wander around until they were found.  

                The women's building was placed far back on the property.  As Clarice's eyes adjusted to the darkness outside, she could see the two fences that stood between her and freedom.  She sidled around the building to the back, ducking low and hugging the side of the building. There was the fence.   Suddenly, a tiny red dot illuminated part of the near fence.  Clarice ran for it.  As she got closer, she could see that the fence had been cut at the bottom.  She pulled it up and worked her way under it.  As she approached the second fence, she could make out the shape of a Mustang hunkering over its wheels.  Standing by it was a lone figure.  

                The red dot flashed again.  Clarice ran for the dot.  Same deal.  She pulled herself to her feet and ran for the car.  As she approached, the figure jogged over to the car.   Clarice opened the passenger-side door and got in.  

                Charlene Starling threw the laser pointer she'd used to direct her aunt onto the dashboard.  She hit the ignition and slammed the car into gear.  

                "Nice Mustang," Clarice said, grinning.  

                "Yeah," Charlene said in a clipped tone.  She drove down the access road without the lights on.  Only once she had reached the main road did she turn them on.  

                For a few minutes neither woman spoke, not until the Mustang blew some miles out its tailpipe, leaving Clarice's house of horrors far behind.  Charlene appeared to be focusing on her driving.  Clarice cleared her throat.  

                "Thank you, honey," she said, and her voice thickened.  

                Charlene nodded curtly.  "It's OK," she said.  For a moment, her military manner dropped and her hand tightened on the wheel.  

                "How'd you know?" Clarice asked quietly.  

                Charlene shrugged and turned right.  The highway was not far away.  "I did some pokin' around," she said.  "I don't want to talk about it."  

                Clarice Starling was not as skilled in psychology as Hannibal Lecter, but she didn't have to be to note that something was very wrong.  She knew what Charlene was doing.  She'd done it herself on countless raids.  Concentrate on the job, be Miss FBI, and avoid thinking about something that dances in the back of your mind inviting you to destroy yourself thinking of it.  

                "There's a bag in the footwell," Charlene said.  "It's got five hundred bucks cash and a fake birth certificate in it and a fake driver's license.  It's not perfect, but it's as good as my scanner at home can provide.  Should be good enough to get you started.  You can hit the passport agency in DC and have a passport in a day.  That'll be enough to get you a driver's license.  Or whatever ID you need."  

                "Where are we going now?" Clarice asked calmly.  

                "I got you a hotel room," Charlene replied.  Her eyes stared at the road glassily.  

                "You got it yourself?" she asked. 

                Charlene shook her head.  "I did, but they won't be able to ID me, I don't think," she said.  "I…," she began to laugh.  "I wore a big blonde wig and sunglasses when I rented it.  Along with a crop top and hot pants.  Not my usual clothes."  She began to snicker crazily, as if insanity was a near possibility.  "Don't rightly think that hotel clerk was looking at my _face, _Aunt Clarice.  It ain't much, but it's a clean bed and they won't find you right off unless you do something stupid."  

                The hotel was not that far away, but far enough that she could never have reached it on foot.  A simple, anonymous little hotel by the side of the highway.  As Charlene had said, it wasn't much.  But it was clean and there was a bed and a shower.  And they weren't going to try and fry her brain in the morning.  Clarice went for the shower, washing the feeling of prison-taint off her body.  The hot, steamy water felt wonderful, cascading over her in sheets.   She felt drunk, alive, powerful.  She was _free.  _

                She grabbed a towel and wrapped herself in it.  Charlene was waiting in a chair, staring desultorily at the TV. Her black fatigues were slightly oversized.  It made her look like a child playing soldier.  Clarice noticed the look on her face, a look of bewilderment and shock, and frowned.  She dressed quietly and then put her hand on her niece's shoulder.  

                "Charlene, are you OK?"  

                Charlene chuckled bitterly and shook her head.  "No," she said.  "Good Lord.  I just found out my boss has been playin' me for a fool, and that he planned to fry you cause he was mad at you."  

                Clarice sighed.  "I know.  It's tough to learn things like that."  

                Charlene shook her head.  She seemed to be withdrawing into herself.  "No," she said.  "I spent so long trying to capture Dr. Lecter," she said.  "I thought he killed you.  Now I know that ain't true.  I thought Jack Crawford was a good guy.  Now I know that ain't true either.  Everything I've worked for, everything I've done…it's all been a lie."  

                "No," Clarice said.  "You just got…some bad information, that's all.  Crawford's good.  He gets you to do things for him."  

                "I caught Dr. Lecter," Charlene observed suddenly.  "Only one other person ever did that. Will Graham.  Fat lot of good it did him, too.  He's a drunk down in Florida fixin' boat motors."  Her face was frighteningly slack, like a doll's.  "Crawford flew him up here.  For a publicity photo.  They took a picture of him an' me, both of us holding Dr. Lecter's wanted poster with a big ol' CAPTURED written crost it.  I thought it was the coolest thing ever.  Got a copy of it on my wall.  And I thought _Wow, Will Graham, one of the famous profilers. _Y'know what he told me?"  

                Clarice shook her head.  

                "He told me two things.  First he said, 'Congratulations, now you know what they'll say about you in the Bureau long after you're gone'.  Then, he told me something else, real quiet, once Crawford and the photographers had gone.  He said…he said…'Here's something they won't tell you in the Bureau.  You'll never be able to stop thinking about Dr. Lecter.  Every day you'll think about what he's doing.  Every night you'll wonder if he's coming for you.'  Know what? He was right."  

                Clarice bent down low and put her hand on her niece's.  Charlene didn't look at her.  Her face was pale and waxy.  

                "Charlene, Dr. Lecter's not like that," she said.  "Not anymore."  

                Charlene considered that mutely for a moment.  Then she swallowed.  

                "Oh yes he is," Charlene emphasized.  "I saw him in the prison in Argentina."  She shivered.  "He's the same.  He'd do me like he did Will Graham in a heartbeat." 

                Clarice shook her head.  "No," she insisted.  "No, listen.  You're only thinking about what's in that file.  That's only…that's a part of Dr. Lecter.  A part of him he left behind."  

                Charlene shook her head.  She seemed distant and lost.  Without the focus of the mission to save Clarice to keep her concentration, she was adrift.  

                 "I know you're gonna ask me when and where he's coming back to the US," Charlene said.  "You haven't asked yet, but you're thinkin' it." 

                Clarice hesitated.  That had indeed been on her mind, but she could not bring herself to press her niece.  She was worried.  She could save Charlene from McCracken; she couldn't save her from herself.  

                "Okay then," she said.  "Are you…are you going to tell me?"  

                Charlene shook her head silently.  

                "Charlene, I'm not gonna make you," Clarice whispered.  She drew closer to the younger woman and put her arms on her shoulders.  She tried to make eye contact with Charlene.  Charlene's eyes were glassy.  "But you gotta ask yourself…does Dr. Lecter _really _deserve to be thrown in some supermax jail?  They'll kill him there.  You know that."  

            Charlene shrugged.  "No," she said.  "No, no, no.  I cain't."

                "Charlene, honey, now listen to me," Clarice began.  

                Clarice shook her head again.  "No," she said softly.  "Look.  Everbody's been wanting me to do things for them.  Crawford says get Lecter for me.  You say bust me out of the loony bin.  I got you out, Aunt Clarice.  I did that for you and I don't regret it.  But I can't give you Dr. Lecter.  I _won't _give you Dr. Lecter."   She still seemed waxy and disconnected.  "I know you want him.  But you can't have him.  You gotta understand.  He's due for some murder charges.  And if he was ever free I'd go crazy."  

                "Charlene," Clarice said, feeling a long, low drop of disappointment in her stomach.  

                "_No," _Charlene said, before Clarice could continue.  "No, no, _no.  _I _cain't.  _Maybe I did wrong by letting them take you and believing them.   Maybe I'll get in trouble for getting you out.  Maybe not.   I want you to be free, Aunt Clarice.  But I can't have Dr. Lecter free.  I can't live every night wondering if this is the night he busts in on me with a linoleum knife." 

                "Charlene, listen to me," Clarice said.  She squatted in front of the other woman and put her hands on both sides of Charlene's face.  For years now, Dr. Lecter seemed to have become Charlene's personal boogeyman.  She could not let him go so easily.  But she _had _to come around.  "Charlene, look.  I know…what you think of Dr. Lecter.  But he won't hurt you.  I promise.  All he wants is to live out what years he has left in peace.  Far away from the United States.  You don't have to help.  You just have to tell me when and where.  I'll take care of the rest.  And I can _promise _you Dr. Lecter won't do anything to you. You know I would never let anyone hurt you, don't you?"   She searched her niece's face for some sign of recognition.  

                Charlene's eyes twitched across Clarice's face and met her own eyes.  When she spoke, it chilled Clarice to the bone.   For she knew that Charlene meant what she said. This was not hysteria or upset.   This was what she actually thought.

                "I gave you your freedom, Aunt Clarice.  That'll have to do.  Dr. Lecter is coming back…and he's going to prison."  

                

                                


	12. Turbulence

                _Author's note:  Er, yes, I did name Ch 7 and Ch 11 the same thing. My bad.  Fixed now.  _

                It was early in the morning when they came for him.  Several hulking brutes in military uniforms.  Some were American, some were Argentine.  Dr. Lecter stared at them calmly through the grille of his cell.  Quite a show of force.   

                A man wearing officer's bars stepped forward.  He held a piece of paper up to the grille.  

                "Dr. Lecter, I'm Captain Maxwell of the US Air Force Military Police.  We'll be taking charge of you for your return to the United States.  Do you want to see the warrant?" 

                Dr. Lecter shook his head.  

                "All right then.  We'll treat you as well as you treat us, Dr. Lecter.  But as you can see, we have adequate people here to control you by force if you make us.  Put out your hands, Dr. Lecter.  I'm going to shackle you."  

                There was no way he could win.  He realized that.  Not here, at least.  So he put his arms out the slot and allowed them to handcuff him.  The steel ratchets closed around his wrists with a metallic clicking sound.  The American military police had out their batons and cans of Mace.  Dr. Lecter let out a mighty sigh and allowed them to shackle his ankles and attach his handcuffs to a belly chain circling his waist.  

                Once he was chained, it was simply a matter of escorting him from the cell.  Dr. Lecter had not been off his cellblock since he came here.  He glanced around a few times as his guards brought him out for the first time in a few weeks.  

                There was a van parked in the transfer area of the prison.  The guards were polite enough to help Dr. Lecter into the van.  Then they closed the prisoner gate, trapping him in the van.  Dr. Lecter sat peacefully.  He wanted his guards at ease.  

                It was a short drive to the air base.  Dr. Lecter examined the scenery a bit.  Here he had lived peacefully with Clarice Starling for eight years.  Here he had found an easy peace that he had not wanted to give up.  But he hadn't.  It had been taken from him.  

                Charlene Starling.  He'd never once thought Clarice's little niece would have done what she had.  He would have liked the chance to try poking around in that head of hers.  Interesting, indeed.  She'd quite literally made herself over in her aunt's image.  What sorts of monsters lurked in her mind?   Unfortunately, he would never be able to find out.  

                At the air base, Dr. Lecter's van was driven directly to a waiting small jet.  Dr. Lecter studied it.  A Gulfstream C-20, it looked like.  Years ago, he had once chartered a commercial version of the plane and served a gourmet meal to his guests in the sky.  They hadn't realized at the time that their meal consisted of a psychologist who had written an article ridiculing Dr. Lecter's article in the _Archives.  _He'd made a far better meal than he had a psychologist, Dr. Lecter thought.  

                But this was no luxury plane.  It was a troop carrier, with only the bare minimum concessions to comfort.  Dr. Lecter was brought on board the plane and installed in a seat.  His guards stood around him warily, as if he might leap on them at any moment.  

                "I can assure you I shan't try to resist," Dr. Lecter addressed one of them.   

                The MP looked very young, Dr. Lecter thought.  They all did.  A young, muscular man in a beret.  He had blonde hair and blue eyes.  He eyed Dr. Lecter without a word.  

                "Are you going to answer me?" Dr. Lecter queried.  

                "I'm not allowed to speak with you unless strictly necessary," the MP said tersely.  "I'm sorry, but I do have my orders."  

                Dr. Lecter nodded.  

                The intercom buzzed.  This was a military plane, and there would be no pleasant _This is your captain speaking _greeting to welcome him aboard the plane.  Instead, the pilot informed the guards tersely that they would be taking off shortly and exhorted them to ensure the prisoner was secured.  

                "Dr. Lecter, I'm going to put your seatbelt on now," the MP said.  "If you resist me, chemical agents and/or electrical stun devices will be used to bring you under control.  Do you understand?"

                Dr. Lecter had not often heard someone actually _say _'and/or' and blinked.  _Poor little robot.  Think for yourself, it's much more fun.  _

"I shan't resist," Dr. Lecter said calmly.  

                The MP buckled him in.  Dr. Lecter tried to adjust himself as much as his restraints would allow.  The chains clinked.  The plane rolled forward to the runway and then leapt into the sky, bringing Dr. Hannibal Lecter back to the country that meant to hold him captive until the end of his days. 

                …

                Clarice Starling took off her baseball cap and ran her fingers through her hair.   Things were going much better for her.  She'd taken the money Charlene had given her and rented a car to get up to Baltimore.  Dr. Lecter had an old safe house there, which he had set up so that she could use it as well as he.  The fake driver's license Charlene had made for her on her computer looked pretty good, she decided.  A cop would know it was a fake in minutes.  Fortunately for Clarice, a car rental clerk was not so quick.  She'd gotten herself a car and driven up to the house.  

                Now she had ten thousand in cash, far better identity papers for three different identities, and a weapon.  She felt vastly better.  She'd busied herself getting some other things she would want.  The phone in the house was already on.  She selected an old van from a want ad and called the owner.  They were nearby, and she was able to check out the van.  It was battered, but it would do.  She bought it and returned the rental car.  Registering the van under one of her identities was easy and convenient.  

                After that, she went out shopping.  Unlike Dr. Lecter, Clarice's shopping was search-and-destroy.  She knew exactly what she wanted and got it with a minimum of fuss and bother.  Ammunition and a cleaning kit for her gun.  Hair dye.  She was blonde now.  He'd get a kick out of that.  A scanner that could monitor police and airport frequencies.  She kept that on most of the time, trying to see if her name came up at all.  So far, it had not.  Still, she'd have loved to see the look on Jack Crawford's face when they told him she'd escaped.  

                She hadn't seen Charlene since the night of the escape.  It had been a few days.  That didn't bother her.  Charlene needed to go on with her life.  Clarice didn't want her to be a suspect in her escape.  She'd seen firsthand Crawford's bad side.  She was more concerned with what was happening to her niece.  Slowly but surely, her entire world was falling apart.  The only thing that Charlene still seemed to believe was that Dr. Lecter deserved to be in jail.  And Clarice had to agree to disagree with her on that.  Dr. Lecter had behaved himself for years.  He was old.  There would be no threat to the public safety in letting him live his life out.  And _she _intended to live with him.  

                To do that, she needed to know when and where.  How was pretty obvious.  They'd fly him in.  Could be something from the Air Force or Army or something just to drag him back.  When and where were the bitch-kitties.  If she had those, she had a fighting shot at getting Dr. Lecter back.  

                Now she had an idea on how to get that.  

                Clarice picked up the phone and dialed a number.  She waited while it rang.  Was the number still the same?  She hoped so.  She wet her tongue and mentally summoned up her drawl.  

                "Department of Justice, Extraditions," a voice answered.  

                "Hi," Clarice said, drawling it out into _Hah.  _"This is Special Agent Starling calling for Jack Crawford.  Ah'm just calling to double-check the arrival date and location for Dr. Hannibal Lecter."  

                There was a brief pause.  Clarice felt an instant of guilt shoot through her for impersonating her niece.  But their voices were similar enough, and after all, she'd never specified she was Special Agent _Charlene _Starling, had she?  

                "I sent him an email with that information," the voice said dubiously.  

                "Right, well, he's been having some computer problems," Clarice said.  "He just asked me to call.  If you could help me out I'd be much obliged."  

                "Now you know there's a firm no-press rule for Dr. Lecter's arrival," the voice warned.  

                "Oh, of course! We're not tipping the damn _Tattler.  _I just need the time and place is all."  

                She heard papers rustle and clenched her free hand into a fist.  _C'mon, baby, c'mon, c'mon. Gimme gimme gimme.  _

"Dr. Lecter's arrival date is today…eight PM…at Langley Air Force Base.  At that point the Air Force will hand him over to the US Marshal's service.  He's got a flight out to Colorado until they decide if the Virginia state authorities are going to try him.  The Tennessee authorities have also asked for a crack."  

                _Shit House Mouse, if they take him away I'll never see him again.  _

"Eight PM?  Thank you much," Clarice said.  "I'll tell him."  

                She hung up the phone.  It was three.  She had five hours.  

                She would set him free or die trying.  

                …

                Charlene Stenson Starling had this much in common with her aunt:  both of them were descended from the bleak underclass of the American South.  Starlings had fought and died for their country on many occasions.  Charlene had fought but not yet died.  It was her world that was dying.  Dr. Lecter, wanted for fifteen murders, had not been the murderer of her aunt.  Her aunt had given herself up in Charlene's place, but she had then fled with a serial killer, betraying everything Charlene had thought she stood for.  Her boss, Jack Crawford, had done a great deal to help her.  Now she knew it was only so that she could catch Lecter for him, as a skilled hunter will put the best dog in the pack in front.  Once her aunt had been apprehended, Crawford had intended to punish her for leaving and use her as a pawn against Dr. Lecter during his day in court.  His means of doing so would have left her broken and institutionalized for the rest of her life.  The boss Charlene had sought to assiduously to please had turned out to be a petty tyrant.  

                And so Charlene had sought some refuge in the past.  The genteel people had always considered her people peckerwoods.  Featherwoods, in her case.  Although, the FBI agent she had become reminded her, there was a gang operating by that name now, and she didn't care for that.  So Charlene had taken the day off from work and gone to Manassas Battlefield Park.  There, she had a look at the museum and stared at the verdant fields of Henry Hill.  So many young men – younger than she was now – had all lost their lives on a sunny day in July.   

                Charlene closed her eyes and imagined the battle.  Horses, men, cannons rumbling along on great wooden wheels.  Battle was more…more _real _then.  Now it was all sanitized. In lieu of men charging and muskets firing, it was all someone sitting at a computer terminal in an air-conditioned room.  Just as she had done when she tracked Dr. Hannibal Lecter down.  Just sitting at her computer, tracing expensive purchases, and _kerbam.  _Now Dr. Lecter was coming back to prison.  

                Aunt Clarice wanted him free.  She knew that.  On the other hand, Aunt Clarice wasn't gonna get him. Charlene had liked meeting Will Graham, but she had no real desire to look like him.  If Dr. Lecter was free, he would eventually try to enact a fate as bloody and gruesome for Charlene as had befallen those young men who fell here in 1861 and 1862.  

                She had her gun, and she was no shrinking violet.  But she knew her foe as well as anyone.  She could recite chapter and verse of his crimes.  He was fearsomely intelligent and fearsomely strong.  He _needed _to be kept in jail.  That was the only way she, and the people she was sworn to protect, could be safe. Dr. Lecter would suffer in jail, but it was suffering he had brought on himself.  Charlene didn't think enforcing the law warranted being slashed up with a linoleum knife.  

                Dr. Lecter would be coming back shortly.  Charlene found herself wondering if she should go and be there when they brought him off the plane.  What would he say to her, before he was whisked off to living entombment in Colorado?  Any more smart comments? Or would he be quiet?  Broken?  Acknowledging his loss?  

                Charlene checked her watch and sat down on a park bench, staring at a small hill that nine hundred young men had once died on. 

                 …

                Dr. Lecter had been a most quiet prisoner.  He had sat in his seat, strapped in, for several hours.  He had not moved or spoken in that time.  His guards seemed slightly more at ease because of this.  The plane had landed once to take on fuel as it sped ever north.  During that time, the guards had hovered around him, Tasers and pepper spray at the ready.  But Dr. Lecter had not moved.  

                He did, now, for the first time since the plane had taken off from Argentina. To his guards, it seemed disturbingly like a corpse coming to life.  Dr. Lecter shifted his feet and cleared his throat.  

                "Pardon me," he said to his guards.  "Might I be permitted to use the bathroom?"  

                The young man who had spoken briefly to him before stared at him calmly.  

                "Please," Dr. Lecter said, but it was out of courtesy, not begging.  "I _am _a man of advanced years,…" he squinted at the rank chevrons pinned to the younger man's collar.  "Sergeant."  

                Silently, the man reached down for Dr. Lecter's seatbelt buckle.  Once that was undone he allowed the doctor to stand.  He escorted the doctor without a word down the aisle of the plane to the tiny lavatory.  He unlocked the doctor's restraints and removed them in order to allow him some dignity.     

                "Dr. Lecter, you are to allow yourself to be restrained once you are done without issue," the sergeant informed him.  

                "Of course," Dr. Lecter said, and entered the bathroom.  He _did _have to empty his bladder, and he did this without incident.  He knew what was going to happen now.  Dr. Lecter reached up to his mouth and removed two items.  

                In the cell Dr. Lecter had occupied in Argentina, his only companion had been the rats that came into his cell.  The only _living _companions, Dr. Lecter discovered.  One night, he had made the slightly unpleasant discovery of a few rat bones under his bunk.  They had been picked clean.  Dr. Lecter had found himself idly wondering if the rats in the cell with him had practiced cannibalism as well.  He was not sure if they did or not.  

                There was what looked like a rat's tooth and what Dr. Lecter thought was a rib.  He had washed them off in his sink with the cleaning supplies they had provided him.  He was largely left alone in his cell, and had ample time to scrape the bones along his wall and the edge of his bunk.  Shaping it had been lengthy but not difficult.  He could not bend the bone, so he had to carve it.  A small metal burr on one of the bars of his cell had been his drill.  It had taken a great deal of time, all told, but time was something he had.  In fact, he had oodles.  

                The results were not cosmetically pleasing.  It had a distinctly barbaric look to it.  But Dr. Lecter had successfully made the tooth into a handcuff key.   It would work, and that was what mattered.  

                The rib Dr. Lecter had simpler plans for.  He had simply sharpened that on the stone wall of his cell until he had gotten it to razor sharpness.  Now he had a somewhat flexible blade a few inches long.  

He had cleaned these with the soap that he had and hidden them in his mouth.  It displeased him to some extent to hide the bones of a rodent in his mouth, but the alternative was prison.  He could always arrange for a dental cleaning later.  

                He hid the key between the fingers of his left hand and the rib between the fingers of his right.  For a moment he considered.  The sergeant would be directly outside, cuffing him again.  He would cuff Dr. Lecter's hands first, then the belly chain, then his ankles.  Where would the others be?  Perhaps twenty feet down the aisle.  This would have to go carefully and very, very quickly if he was to win.  But Dr. Lecter had something his opponents did not.  He knew what lay ahead of him.  Life in a supermax prison.  No, not life; mere existence.  Without his Clarice.  Given _that, _it was not so much to risk his life.  Death would be preferable to a meaningless existence like that. 

                So Dr. Lecter exited the bathroom.  The sergeant was there to stop him immediately.  Dr. Lecter expected this and held out his fists without issue.  The sergeant handcuffed him again and attached the belly chain.  Then he squatted to attach Dr. Lecter's leg irons.  

                Calmly, carefully, Dr. Lecter put his homemade key in the handcuff lock and turned it. For just a moment it caught in the lock and he feared it had all been for naught.  But then the handcuff swung open.  He passed the key to his other hand and unlocked his other cuff.  

                Free of his restraints, Dr. Lecter reached down and grabbed the sergeant by the hair.  The sharpened rib was in his hand and he was ready.  The sergeant looked up at him and grabbed his legs.  It was the wrong move.  Dr. Lecter cut his throat easily and reached down to his belt.  It took only a moment to free the Taser and pepper spray.  

                The wound was already lethal, and so Dr. Lecter ignored the sergeant as he lay bleeding out on the floor.  Thirty feet. Figure five feet as the effective range of the Mace.  Dr. Lecter charged down the aisleway with inhuman speed and the grace of a dancer.  The Mace was out and ready in his left hand.  It sprayed out in a fog, covering the remaining three guards.  They began to choke and sputter.  To kill them took only moments with the sharpened rib.  One, two, three, and he was done.    

                Back to the sergeant, already relaxing in death.  He carried a pistol in a flapped holster.   Dr. Lecter had ignored it, knowing he could not get to it in time.  But now he had oodles of time.  He took the gun and walked forward to the door separating the cockpit.  

                This had to go quickly as well.  Dr. Lecter aimed the gun at the lock, pointing down.  Normally he disliked guns, but sometimes they were necessary.  Now was one of those times.  He pulled the trigger and the door shuddered open.  Now for the pilots. 

                The pilots glanced over at him with wide eyes.  Dr. Lecter covered the remaining ground in a second or two and shot the copilot dead.  The pilot eyed him with wild alarm, twisting around in his seat to try and free himself from his safety harness.  A quick blast from the Mace ensured he would not complain any further.  Then Dr. Lecter cut his throat and hauled him from his seat.   

                The plane appeared to be flying itself.  Dr. Lecter knew about autopilots.  Flying by wire made for less crashes.  Good.  The pilot appeared to be close to his size.  It took only a moment or two to change clothing with the pilot and drag the corpse to where it would not be in his way.  

                The FBI files on Dr. Lecter had never indicated he had a pilot's license.  This was for a most simple reason.  He had never obtained one.  But when his hobbies began to occupy more and more of his time, he had taken some lessons and knew the rudiments.  With the autopilot flying the plane, he would have ample opportunity to acquaint himself with the controls.    

                Where was the flight manual?  It had to be here somewhere.  Dr. Lecter located it as he sat down at the pilot's seat.  He began to page through it calmly.  His pulse had risen to one hundred, but as he calmly read how to land a Gulfstream C-20 from the manufacturer's own instructions, it began to drop to a normal level.  According to the computers on the plane, they were just getting over southern Mexico now.  

                Dr. Hannibal Lecter sat at the controls of the plane and read.   He planned to go north anyway, for Clarice.  She was waiting for him. 


	13. Touchdown

                _Author's note:  Yes, I know, couldn't keep the chapter-a-day thing up forever.  I am but flesh and blood, you know.  But enjoy, Dear Reader, here we are.  _

Jack Crawford sat at a borrowed desk in the air force base and sighed.  It was finally time.  He'd seen Dr. Lecter in his cell in Argentina.  But this would be better.  This would be his final victory.   Dr. Lecter, returned to American soil, crossed off Jack Crawford's list once and for all.  

                He had an impressive show of force.  Twenty FBI agents and ten federal marshals.  The good doctor would have no chance at all of escape once the Air Force signed him into Jack Crawford's custody.  That was important to him.  

                Clarice had escaped.  That had been annoying.  So far, Charlene didn't seem to have mentioned anything.  He didn't think she knew much more than she said.  She wasn't that good at lying.  Crawford knew the shady sides of things far better than his idealistic employee.  She had bought the triggers story.  He'd thought moving Clarice to medium security would've allayed her niece's suspicions.  It had, but now Clarice was out.  Damn McQuerry!  The man couldn't keep one freaking woman under wraps.  Next time he would have to find somewhere else for Clarice.  

                But Dr. Lecter was his.  That meant something.  Never again would the doctor trouble Crawford's sleep.  He was going back to prison, and this time he would never get out.  Crawford would see to it that Dr. Lecter was held in a supermax facility until the end of his days.  And Clarice would turn up.  

                He thought for a moment about what he had planned.  At first, he'd hoped Clarice might turn on Dr. Lecter.  Eventually, he had accepted that she would not.  And then he had wondered what would be the best thing to do.  Clarice as a witness for the prosecution would've been the crowning glory in Dr. Lecter's trial.  Clarice as a witness for the defense could've created problems.  Dr. Lecter was old.  That could've swayed a jury towards him.  The last thing Crawford wanted was a tearful wife on the stand pleading for her husband.  So, instead, he had come to this idea.  Clarice had betrayed the FBI and him personally by fleeing with a serial killer.  There was something fitting in this.  If she wouldn't help the good guys one way, she would help them another way.  Plus, he thought, the look on Hannibal Lecter's face when they rolled his beloved into court in a wheelchair, vegetative and zombielike, would have been worth it.  

                But now it had all fallen apart.  No more Clarice.  Never mind; she'd turn up.  

                He shifted in his chair and waited. The plane was arcing over the southeastern United States.  Dr. Lecter would be here soon.  

                …

                Clarice Starling sat in her purchased van in a parking lot.  She was ten minutes away from the air force base.  She couldn't hope to get on the base itself.  Too risky.  But here would be OK.  The damn plane wasn't here yet.  She'd made a few more purchases today.  A .308 sniper rifle and some ammunition for it.  She'd sighted it in out in the boonies.  She knew pistols better than rifles, but she was no slouch with a rifle.  And with a big telescopic sight mounted atop the sniper rifle, she knew she could set him free.  

                She didn't want to kill anyone.  But she would if she had to.  She saw no other choice.  Clarice knew perfectly well that the agents guarding Dr. Lecter would give up their lives before setting him free.  Now was the hard part – all she had to do was sit here and wait until the plane got there.  

                It occurred to her that Charlene might well be there to watch Dr. Lecter hustled off to prison.  That raised a great deal more trauma than killing any other of Jack Crawford's people did.  She didn't want Charlene there.  It would be so much easier that way.  The thought of Charlene in her sights made her ill.  Despite everything her niece had done, Clarice could not bear the thought of killing her or even wounding her enough to get Dr. Lecter free.  Charlene had suffered a lot.  Some was McCracken's fault.  Some was Crawford's.  And yes, some of it was hers.  She hoped and prayed that it didn't come to that.  

                She had the scanner she'd purchased on.  It sat on the passenger seat of the van.  An earphone was stuck in her ear so that no nosy civilians might overhear her listening in on the air force base's frequencies.  Once the plane had requested landing clearance, she was going to move on over to the air base.  She could cut the fence with wire cutters.  Drive on the runway if she absolutely had to.  But she would free Dr. Lecter no matter what.  

                The tower was talking tersely to several inbound planes.  None were his.  Dammit.  Clarice began to tap her feet nervously.  Where the hell was he?  

                …

                The park would be closing soon, and it occurred to Charlene that she would have to leave soon.  Dr. Lecter was coming.  At one point, she'd thought that the capture of Dr. Lecter would be the greatest.   Over the past year, the capture of Dr. Lecter had been the driving force in her life.  She'd captured him.  Now came the final part – his return to US soil and to prison.  She'd thought about what she would say to him as they took him off the plane.  She'd worked so hard for this, and now she found it unsatisfying and sad.  

                Aunt Clarice wanted him free. Aunt Clarice was just going to have to deal on _that.  _She'd toyed with telling Crawford to beef up the security detail.  Then she'd seen what he was bringing and decided it wasn't necessary.   Thirty officers.  Talk about male overcompensation.   But it would have the desired effect.  The good doctor would go to prison.  And there he would stay.  

                Why did Aunt Clarice want him free anyway?  Could she really ignore all the atrocities he'd committed?  Did she really think that he_ wouldn't _go gunning for Charlene the minute he was capable of so doing?  Dr. Lecter was dangerous.  Pure and simple.  So long as he was free innocent people were in jeopardy.  If someone was rude to you, Charlene thought, the appropriate retaliation was to politely avoid them or snub them or something.  You didn't chop out their internal organs and serve them with shallots and berries.  Why, if everybody did that, then where would the world be?  

                Besides, she thought, if that was how the world worked, then she supposed she had Dr. Lecter's left kidney or something due her for the way he'd treated her in Argentina.  But she could understand that.  The old doctor had been enraged that she'd caught him.  He'd underestimated her.  Most people did.  

                She ought to head over to the air force base.  Dr. Lecter would be due in.  Mr. Crawford would expect her there.  It seemed so long ago that she had once put so much weight by his opinions.  But he was still her boss, and facts were facts – Dr. Lecter would not be on that plane if not for her.  Charlene got up and began to walk slowly back to the car.  

                …

                Dr. Lecter had been speaking with the tower via radio.  Up until now.  They would be watching him and waiting for him to land.  Landing was something he planned on doing.  After all, the plane would only fly for so long.  He just planned to do it slightly differently from what they had planned.  

                He was on his final approach to the air force base.  The closer he got, the more surprised they would be.  According to the instrumentation he had plenty of fuel.  That was good.  But Dr. Lecter did not plan on doing much different.  

                Dr. Lecter cleared his throat.  He had been disguising his voice with a twang rather like Clarice's.  He supposed she might be bright enough to be listening.  If she was, she'd appreciate it.  What about Charlene?  Was she listening?   

                "Air Force 325, we have you for final approach," the tower radioed back.  

                "Roger," Dr. Lecter said in his twang.  "Say, who's down there to take charge of the prisoner once I land?"  

                There was a momentary pause.  "Jack Crawford and a contingent of federal marshals are ready to take him."  

                "Is he on the line?"  Dr. Lecter knew it wasn't terribly wise, but by the time they realized what was happening it would be too late.   And he just couldn't resist.  

                "He can hear you but he can't transmit."  

                Dr. Lecter nodded.  Good enough.  He dropped the twang and cleared his throat again, speaking in the careful, mocking tones he favored.  

                "Jacky-boy," Dr. Lecter said, "how _are _you?  But I'm afraid I won't be in your clutches today.  Plans have changed, you know."   

                He turned the radio off, as it wouldn't do anything more than annoy him.  Then he grabbed the yoke and turned the plane into a deep turn west.  The engines of the C-20 made a throaty roar as Dr. Lecter throttled them up to full. 

                Below, Jack Crawford recognized the voice.  His face turned red with rage.  Dr. Lecter had the plane?  No.  This would not be taken from him.  

                "_Track that plane!" _he shouted, even though the air force base's radar had never stopped tracking it.  What the hell was Lecter doing?  Even as the small blip on the radar screen arced away from the air force base, countermeasures were rapidly being prepared. In post-9/11 America, the base had several armed fighter craft available.  They could be scrambled within minutes to force Dr. Lecter's unarmed jet to the ground.  

                Lecter's plane turned west and began descending leisurely.  He stopped answering the radio. At the air base, flight crews began readying two fighters to go up and force him down.  Crawford eyed the blip on the radar screen.  What was he doing?  

                Then it hit him.  

                "What airports are west of here?" he asked one of the airmen milling about.  "Local little places where he could land that thing?  Say within twenty miles or so."  

                The young man considered.  "Well, there's Manassas Regional Airport.  That's thirty miles away.  A little jet like that could land there."   

                Crawford nodded.  "That's where he's going," he said tightly.  "He can land there before we get anything up to intercept him."  

                The young man blinked.  "Then he has to radio their tower and get permission," he argued.  

                "No, he doesn't," Crawford confirmed, his eyes locked on the blip representing his fleeing prey.  "If he just goes and lands that puppy, anyone in his way is gonna get _out _of his way real fast."  He turned his head.  "Everyone get over to Manassas Regional _now.  _Inform local police. Get as many men as you can there now."  

                Unbeknownst to Jack Crawford, a dirty white van not far from the airbase intercepted the order as it went out over the radio and began racing for the regional airport as well.  

                Jack Crawford pulled out his cell phone.  Lecter had pulled a fast one.  He might have a card up his sleeve himself.   He scrolled down the list of numbers and found the one he wanted.  

                He tapped his feet impatiently as the phone began to ring and wished he had authority to order the air force base's anti-aircraft guns to be used to take down Lecter's plane.  _Dammit!  _He had been so close.  Lecter would _not _get away.  

                "Starling," came a young woman's voice.  

                "Starling. Crawford.  Where are you?"  

                "I'm sorry, I wasn't there, sir, I've just…," 

                "Never mind that.  _Where are you?"  _

"Manassas," Charlene said, seemingly surprised.  

                "Lecter's hijacked the plane.  He's gonna try and land at the little regional airport in Manassas.  How fast can you be there?"  

                There was silence on the other end of the line, but just for a moment or two.  _Good, _Crawford thought, and made a note to congratulate her later on her quick reaction time.  

                "Quick as I can," she said.  "It's not too far away.  And I got one of those red bubble lights in my car.  I guess I can use that."  

                She wasn't supposed to have that in her personal car, but at the time Crawford did not care.  He would give her a friendly warning about it later.  For now, it was convenient.   He could hear her heading back to her car.  That was good.  

                "Starling, I have backup on the way," he promised.  "Don't try any heroics.  Just try to detain him until backup gets there.  And don't let him talk to you.  You don't need Hannibal Lecter in your head."  

                "Yes, sir," she said in a clipped tone.  Crawford heard a powerful V8 roar to life in the background.  _That's my girl, _he thought and grinned tightly.   

                "If he resists you, you have my authorization to use deadly force," Crawford said.  "I'll back you." 

                It had just become a four-party race, with three of the parties competing for the fourth as the prize.  

…

                The tower was squawking at Dr. Lecter and demanding to know what the hell he was doing.  That should be relatively obvious.  He was landing.  After all, the air force base would have fighter jets, and they would be scrambling soon.  Dr. Lecter did not particularly want to end this journey by having the jet torn apart by missiles.  And Jacky-boy would shoot him down.  He had no doubt of that.  Conveniently, everything he'd needed had been right here in the cockpit.  Finding an airport not far away from the base – close enough that he could land there before they sent up whatever Jack Crawford could come up with to shoot him down.   

                Would Clarice be there?  He hoped so.   If he had to free her, he supposed that couldn't be too hard.  But a ride would be useful.  And Clarice was much more resourceful than Crawford had ever given her credit for.  

                Once he was on final approach to the airport, it was not terribly hard to land the craft, even with the tower screaming at him that he did _not _have landing clearance and would be arrested if he landed the craft there.  Dr. Lecter was not quite as skilled as the pilot he had killed, and the landing was a little bumpy.  No matter.  Dr. Lecter remembered what his long-ago flight instructor had told him.  _It's a good landing if the plane's on the ground and in one piece.  It's a really good landing if you can use the plane again.  _

Dr. Lecter unbuckled his safety harness and got out of the seat.  It was not terribly hard to open the plane's door and jump to the ground.  He suavely shot his cuffs and began to walk towards the airport.  He had the gun, if he needed it.  He'd need a car.  

                A white van pulled up near the fence separating the airport.  Dr. Lecter turned his head and looked.  A few hundred yards.   He would have ample time to evade them if it was the authorities.  

                But it was not.  Clarice poked her head out the window and screamed his name.  For the first time in a few weeks, Dr. Lecter beheld Clarice Starling.  A smile creased his lips and he began to move towards her at a fast trot.   Even at this distance he could see her face light up.   

                A gunshot echoed over his head and brought him to an abrupt halt.  From behind him a voice spoke.  

                "Dr. Lecter!  _FREEZE!"  _

Dr. Lecter turned around and beheld the figure of Charlene Stenson Starling standing fifteen feet behind him.  Her eyes burned holes through him.  She was trembling and her mouth working.  But her .45 was out, and the muzzle aimed directly at his chest.  

                "Charlene," Dr. Lecter said calmly.  "My, you're--," 

                "Dr. Lecter, be quiet," Charlene said.  The big muzzle of the .45 jittered back and forth nervously.  "Put your hands on your head and kneel down.  And tell Aunt Clarice not to come any closer.  I see her too, y'know."  

                "You seem frightened," Dr. Lecter observed.  "Charlene, now really."  

                Before he could finish the sentence the .45 firmed up.  The hole in its muzzle seemed absurdly large.  She centered it on his chest again, so that a fat .45 slug fired at him would punch through the heart.  Then follow up with two rounds to the head, as she had been trained.  Her mouth pressed into a line.  She was afraid, but not a coward.  But that fear made his job harder; she would not act rationally.  

                "Dr. Lecter, I am _not _going to argue with you and I am _not _going to put up with your games and your taunting.  Turn around.  Kneel down on the ground.  Call out to Aunt Clarice and tell her not to come any closer. Do it now.  If you don't do what I tell you or if you try to fuck with me, I _will _shoot you dead."  

                In the distance, sirens began to fill the air.           


	14. No Choice

                _Author's note:  Steel, 'slimy piece of worm-ridden filth'? Crawford the Hutt?  Now there's an interesting idea.  Emotionally scarred for life?  Well, then, this won't help…. _

Clarice Starling stared helplessly at the two figures a hundred yards away from her.  One was her husband.  The other was her niece.  This was something she had hoped and prayed she would never have to see.  But fate had been unkind.  

                Dr. Lecter was perhaps fifteen feet in front of Charlene.  He was on his knees with his hands folded on the back of his neck.  He stood tall even kneeling.  His back was straight and unbowed.  Clarice had binoculars, and through those she could see the look of concern on his face.  It was said that Dr. Lecter did not have emotions, but he _did _have the desire to avoid being killed.  

                The binoculars revealed Charlene to be much more of a cause for alarm.  She was trembling and her eyes were bulging.  Clarice recognized the signs of pure, naked fear.  And Charlene had her big .45 aimed directly at the back of Dr. Lecter's head.  Occasionally she would glance for just a second over at Clarice.  

                Clarice had her rifle, but was frankly terrified to use it.  There were two reasons for this.  She'd fought to save her niece once, damn near getting herself killed in the process.  The thought of shooting her made Clarice quail.  The second reason was that she didn't know if it would do any good.  Clarice knew the gun in Charlene's hands.  It had been hers for a lot longer than it had ever been Charlene's.  The trigger had been made a bit lighter than the standard.  Even if she shot Charlene and killed her instantly, all it would take would be a muscle spasm in Charlene's fingers and the back of Dr. Lecter's head would be spread all over the tarmac.  If she tried to kill Charlene, horrifying as that thought was, she _still _couldn't guarantee Dr. Lecter would survive. Killing one would not save the other.  

                Feeling like a prisoner, Clarice laced her fingers through the cyclone fencing and stared at her niece longingly.  Was there any way she could reach the younger woman?  Or was Dr. Lecter too terrifying a figure in her mind?  She had a disturbing feeling that the latter case was true.   Couldn't she understand?  Dr. Lecter meant her no harm.  He did not begrudge her having captured him.  He wanted his freedom more than revenge.  

                "Charlene!" she shouted.   "Can I talk to you?" 

                "Aunt Clarice, _go away!" _Charlene shouted back by way of reply.  "Drop your weapons and just go away.  You cain't help him."  Her chest heaved as she kept a most careful watch on her prisoner.  

                "I don't have any weapons," Clarice said.  

                "My ass you don't," Charlene shot back.  "You got at least two.  I _know _you do."  

                Clarice thought of the sniper rifle she had in the van and the pistol hidden against the small of her back and sighed.  

                "Charlene, might I ask you to calm down?" Dr. Lecter asked calmly.  

                Charlene's eyes shifted back to the kneeling boogeyman in front of her.  "_You shut up!" _she said sharply.  "You ain't getting in my head like you did Aunt Clarice's.  No sir.  You just stay there an' keep your mouth shut."  

                "Are you going to kill me here, Charlene?" he asked.  His voice was soothing and calm.  "Execute me here with two bullets in the back of my head?  Is that who _you _are?"  

                Charlene waited.  Her eyes were wide with fear.  But she still kept the gun aimed firmly at Dr. Lecter.  

                "I will if you make me," she said, sounding bizarrely like a recalcitrant child. 

                "I shan't make you do anything," Dr. Lecter said.  "But Charlene, I might like to put my hands down, if I may."  

                A high note of panic raised Charlene's voice into a high-pitched shriek.  _"Keep them where they are!"  _Her eyes shifted over to her aunt.  "Keep _your _hands where I can see them, Aunt Clarice," she said firmly.  "I know you've got a gun.  Don't tell me you don't.  Now we've traded.  _I _got the bad 'un this time.  You g'wan.  You made me g'wan before.  Now you go."  

                "Honey, I'm not going anywhere," Clarice said.  "Just…just listen to me.  This isn't what being an FBI agent is about.  Now look.  I'm not armed.  Can I just talk to you?  I saved you, you know."  

                "I paid you back for that when I busted you out of Greenwood," Charlene said.  Her drawl colored her words to the point that Dr. Lecter, with his delicate Eastern Seaboard pronunciation, found it slightly hard to comprehend.   He had lived long enough with Clarice Starling to recognize what it meant.  She was either extremely angry or extremely upset.  In Charlene's case he suspected it was both.  Usually he had learned to let Clarice cool.  That wasn't an option.  The cavalry was arriving.  But here was a possible in.  

                "Greenwood?  Is that the psychiatric facility in Virginia?  The Veterans Administration institution?" he asked.  

                Charlene stared at the back of Dr. Lecter's head.  Her mouth trembled.  Her eyes bulged. 

                "Yes," she said unwillingly.  

                "Whyever was Clarice there?  Is that the 'help' that Jack Crawford promised her?  I've heard of that place.  It was a hellhole when I was practicing psychiatry.  Charlene, ask yourself.  Why did Jack Crawford incarcerate your aunt there?  It was so he could do something nasty to her; otherwise you wouldn't have freed her.  Isn't that the case?"  

                "_You shut up!" _Charlene screamed.  From the way her voice jagged, Dr. Lecter thought she had only the most tenuous grasp on her emotions.  Pushing her would not be a wise idea, given the circumstances.  

                "Please, Charlene.  Calm down."  Dr. Lecter's voice was soothing.  

                "Don't you tell me what to do," Charlene panted.  "You just…you _killer…_you just stay there an' wait for the rest of the agents to show up."  

                "I don't want you to kill me, Charlene. I hardly think that's unreasonable.  Do you want to kill me?"  

                A few hundred yards away, Clarice banged the fence in frustration.  She could hear Dr. Lecter's voice but couldn't discern what he was saying.  He couldn't see Charlene behind him, but Clarice could.  The binoculars revealed a woman in the grip of hysteria.  Her hands were trembling.  Her eyes bugged from their sockets.  Her pulse beat in her forehead.  _Must be up over a hundred and twenty, _Clarice thought.  _Hannibal, don't push her, for Christ's sake.  _

A phalanx of cars was drawing closer to the airport.  Red lights flickered from their roofs.  Charlene was not looking at her.  That meant…oh God.  That meant she had to act now.  

                Clarice jumped back in the van and picked up the sniper rifle from where it lay. Tears blurred her vision.  She felt nauseated.  _Oh God, I don't want to do this.  I'll just wound her.  Please, God, guide my hand.  _

She sat down in the passenger seat of the van and lifted the rifle to her eye.  Charlene's terrified face appeared in the scope.  A bolt of pain washed through Clarice at the sight of that.  She dropped the rifle a bit lower.  Where could she fire and not kill or maim?  It was hard to think.  

                As Clarice was making her preparations, Dr. Lecter adjusted a bit.  It was uncomfortable to kneel on the tarmac.   He was more concerned about the hysterical woman with a gun behind him.  Calmly, he cleared his throat.  

                "Charlene," Dr. Lecter asked, "please, now let's be reasonable.  I have complied with your requests.  I mean you no harm.  I don't know what you think I deserve, but I must question if summary execution is what you consider just.  From what I have seen of you, it doesn't seem to be."

                From her tone of voice, Dr. Lecter thought she was not far from tears.  "You just quiet down," she said.  "You just quiet down and sit tight."  

                Dr. Lecter sighed.  

                "What _did _you do to my aunt?" she asked, her voice trembling.  "Dammit, you _did _brainwash her, didn't you?  Lookit her.  Out here risking going back to the loony bin for you."

                "I did not brainwash her," Dr. Lecter said.  "I helped her to understand…that she could not be happy in her life as it was.  I showed her another way."   

                Charlene said nothing.  

                "Charlene, I must say, I don't think you're terribly happy either."  

                Charlene let out a low chuckle.  "Oooooh, no, you don't," she whispered.  "No, no, no.  You're not getting in _my _head, Dr. Lecter.  You shut your mouth _raht now_ or I'll blow your head off."  

                "Charlene, please."  Dr. Lecter shifted uncomfortably and appeared ill at ease.  "I'm not attempting to manipulate you.  It seems I have…underestimated you."  He supposed the admission would please her vanity, if indeed she had such things.  

                When she spoke her tone was one of bitter satisfaction.  "Most people do, Dr. Lecter.  Most people do.  You hear the drawl and you think it means dumb."  

                "It's an error I have learned not to repeat," Dr. Lecter admitted.    "Does Jack Crawford feel the same way?"  Dr. Lecter would allow himself only this one more dig.    

                  "Leave Mr. Crawford out of this," Charlene hissed.  Then her head snapped up.  "Wait a minute. Where's Aunt Clarice?"  

                "I don't know, Charlene.  You've forced me to kneel here."  

                _"Where the hell is she?"  _Charlene screamed.  Then her head whipped back and forth, seeking out her aunt.  She was nowhere to be seen.  Not good.  

                "Aunt Clarice!" she shouted.  "I know you're in the van.  Git out here!"  

                There was no reply.  In the van, Clarice Starling pressed the cheekpiece of the rifle to her face and prayed silently.  

                "Aunt Clarice!  Git out here where I can see you!"  

                There was no reply.  Charlene knew whatever her aunt was planning could not be good.  She wanted Dr. Lecter free.  Charlene could not let that happen.  Mr. Crawford had said he would back her if she had to use deadly force.  She couldn't see Aunt Clarice and knew she was up to no good.  The monster might be on his knees now, but if Aunt Clarice set him free innocent people would die.  Better that a murderer die than innocent people.  She had no choice.  She took a deep breath and forced her hands to stop trembling.  She stared at the front sight.  Beyond it was the crown of Dr. Hannibal Lecter's head.   A squeeze of the trigger, and all the lights in that monster mind would go out once and for all.

 "I'm not joking, Aunt Clarice!  Get out here _now!  _ I'll fire!"  She pronounced this last sentence _all far.  _Dr. Lecter tensed in front of her.  

Clarice Starling aimed her sniper rifle, and took a deep breath.  She was aiming for Charlene's shoulder.  Good and high, so the bullet would pass through and heal clean.  Her niece did not deserve to be crippled for life.  She prayed that it would do, that this was the right thing.  But she had no choice.  If the cops arrived, she would lose Dr. Lecter forever.  Her finger began to take up slack on the trigger.  

Charlene Starling aimed her .45 and took a deep, shuddering breath of her own.  The muzzle of the .45 would blow the back of Dr. Lecter's head off.  A single bullet would do what thirty agents had failed to do.    She hadn't wanted to kill Dr. Lecter.  But she had no choice.  Her finger tightened on the trigger.

A single gunshot echoed across the flat field of the airport, the echo rolling back from the hills.   A moment later, a second one followed.  

 


	15. Decision

_Author's note:  Mean? Cruel?  Moi?  Methinks this is a bit of exaggeration.  Defense Exhibit A, coming right up.  And no, this isn't the end yet._

For a moment, nothing moved on the airport tarmac.  

The gunfire still rang in Hannibal Lecter's ears.  _Something _had smacked the side of his head, something immensely powerful like the fist of the angry God he hadn't believed in since he was a child.  For a moment, he actually knew fear for the first time in many years.  Was he dead?  Was this hell?  

                No, wait.  He cautiously freed his hand from behind his neck and touched the side of his head just above the ear, where the pain was coming from.  His fingers came away bloody.  He explored the side of his head a bit more, unmindful of the pain.  His skull seemed intact.  The trauma seemed to be only skin deep.  No matter.  With a mirror and a surgical needle, he could sew it up himself.  

                He let out a chuckle as he realized what had happened.  Grazed.  He'd been grazed.  Charlene's bullet had been pulled off target by something.  Had Clarice shot her?  He thought she had.   

                Dr. Hannibal Lecter rose and dusted off the knees of his pants.  He could see Clarice in the van.  The rifle lay on her lap.  Her head was buried in her hands.  He turned around to look behind him.  

                Charlene Starling lay unmoving on the ground.  A red blotch of blood bloomed at her right shoulder.  Her eyes were closed.  The .45 lay a few feet from her outstretched hand.  But her chest rose and fell steadily.  Dr. Lecter stared at her for a moment unsteadily.  The blood wasn't too bad.  Telling without an X ray would be impossible, but Dr. Lecter's experience in trauma led him to believe the wound was not serious.  She wouldn't exsanguinate, at any rate.  

                Dr. Lecter squatted and picked up the pistol.  He wobbled for a moment as he did.  It didn't surprise him that he was dizzy.  After all, a rather large bullet had just come into very close contact with his skull.  The only thing that he could compare it to was once, in the asylum, when he had shifted his weight while Barney was still unbuckling his straitjacket.  One of his assistants, already keyed up and nervous, had entered the cell and struck Dr. Lecter on the head with his riot baton.  Fortunately, Barney had the courtesy to make his underling apologize later on. 

                But there would be no apology now.  She was unconscious.  Dr. Lecter bent his knees and checked her pulse.  It was strong and regular.  Her breathing was unimpaired.  He pondered his options for a moment.  

                Charlene Stenson Starling had caused him more trouble than anyone else in years.  Because of her, Dr. Lecter had been forced to leave a home and country he had quite enjoyed.  Because of her, the authorities had updated pictures of his face.  Because of her, he had been taken from his luxurious home and forced to occupy a filthy prison cell for three weeks.  Because of her, Clarice had been imprisoned in a secure psychiatric hospital.  This young stripling had proven herself a remarkable opponent, much more dangerous than he would have ever considered her to be. All of that leaned Dr. Lecter towards his first option:  kill her.  He had her gun.  It would take only a moment.  

                But even as he reviewed the reasons for him to do so, he knew he would not.  It was not for his own sake nor hers.  Mercy had never had a place in Dr. Lecter's own mind.  No, it was for Clarice that he would spare Charlene.   If he killed Charlene, she would understand.  He had no doubt of that.  In time, she would heal and forgive him.  But something would likely die in her as well.  The sight of Hannibal Lecter killing her helpless, unconscious niece would be something that would scar itself into her mind.  After all, he mused, the sight of Hannibal Lecter carrying away a bloody and unconscious Clarice Starling had affected Charlene much more massively than he would have ever thought.   Clarice had suffered enough.  _She _did not deserve this.  He would offer her Charlene's life as a gift. 

                The second option would be for him to simply leave her here.  Her wound was not serious, and Dr. Lecter believed she would be stable for the short period of time that it would take for Jacky-boy and the rest of his goons to arrive and call her an ambulance.  That was possible.  Unfortunately, that would leave him back at square one.  She had found him once.  It was hardly inconceivable that she might do it again.  Dr. Lecter had no real desire to spend any more time quartered in a filthy cell with rats to keep him company.  He'd learned the hard way not to underestimate her.  No, leaving her would not work.  It was acceptable for the short term, but it would be poor long-term strategy.  Dr. Lecter owed his two escapes from custody to good strategy. 

                So that left him to the third option. At first, the very idea seemed as insane as the inmates Dr. Lecter had lived with for eight years.  But as he thought about it, it seemed the best option for all involved.  It would keep him safe from her relentless search for him.  Plus, he was curious what might lie beneath those curls.  It would please Clarice to no end.  And yes, Dr. Lecter thought, in the end it would prove to be the best option for Charlene. Yes, it made perfect sense.  

 Dr. Hannibal Lecter lowered himself down a third time and slid his arms under the unconscious form of Charlene Starling.   He adjusted her limp weight in his arms and began to walk towards the gate.  Clarice looked up from where she sat in the van and saw him.  Her face brightened and then dropped.  But she got out of the van and began to busily cut the wires holding the fence to the post.  By the time he reached the fence, she had cut enough free that he was able to pull it aside.  Clarice stared down at her niece.  

"Are you all right?" she asked anxiously.  "Is she--," 

"I'm fine," Dr. Lecter assured her.  "A bit of work on my ear, but that can wait.  Charlene seems to be all right but unconscious."  

Clarice stared at him.  "What are you…what are you going to do with her?"  

"Take her along," Dr. Lecter said.  "I'll explain on the ride.  Please, let's move."  

Clarice took hold of her niece's shoulder and pulled her under the fence.  After she was through, Dr. Lecter wriggled under the fence and picked up Charlene again.  He glanced at the van and decided it would do.    

Clarice took the wheel and Dr. Lecter squatted in the back to examine the wound.  Physical examination indicated that it was not bad, as gunshot wounds went.  Nothing felt broken.  Good.  There was a bump on the back of her head where she had fallen.  

Dr. Lecter noticed a second rifle leaning against the wall of the van.  It didn't fire bullets, he thought.  The stock was plastic and it just didn't look right.   Hmm. 

"What is that, there?" Dr. Lecter asked Clarice.  

"A tranquilizer gun," Clarice said.  "I..umm…I made an ID and went to some little town's animal control department and told them I was from the ASPCA.  Made up an official looking paper and everything.  Told them I needed to take it for testing and would have it back to them in a few days.  Once I had it, I realized it wouldn't have the range I needed.  I was thinking I could avoid some senseless killing."  

"What is it loaded with?" Dr. Lecter asked again, tilting his head.  Now this might work to his benefit.  Good thinking on her part.  And so like Clarice, to want to avoid killing her former compatriots if she could.  

"Tranquilizer darts.  I don't remember what kind," Clarice said.  

Dr. Lecter nodded and picked up the rifle.  He aimed it at Charlene's left thigh.  There, the dose would diffuse into the muscle mass, the way it was supposed to.  He remembered that night at Mason Verger's.  At the time he'd wondered if Clarice was going to die. Fortunately, she had not.  

He squeezed the trigger.  A sound like a green stick breaking filled the van, making Clarice jump a bit.  A feathered dart flew from the barrel and buried itself in Charlene's leg.  She would sleep for the time being.  She wore BDU pants, and the legs were wide enough that he was able to pull it up.  That was better; taking off her pants would have been a slightly uncomfortable situation.  The dart was buried firmly into her thigh.  Dr. Lecter removed the dart and reached up front to store it in the glove compartment.  The wound did not bleed heavily.  There was a first aid kit in the van and that served to bandage that wound.  The shoulder wound he patched up with what he had.  It would need further work.  He left his own head wound alone for now; he needed both hands free and did not want to wrap surgical tape around his head.

Clarice drove the van down a rarely used access road as fast as she could.  Ahead lay the interstate.  There was no exit, but this was not a problem for Clarice.  She revved the engine and drove up the slight incline onto the shoulder of the highway.  It was a bit bumpy, and Dr. Lecter found himself obligated to hold onto the unconscious woman on the floor of the van lest she slide towards the back.  

The van's powerful V8 roared anew once it was on the asphalt.  Clarice accelerated to highway speed and merged into traffic.  A car honked at her and she flipped them off with high good humor.  She felt better than she had since Dr. Lecter's arrest.  

The van roared down the highway at seventy miles an hour.  Clarice took the first exit that came up a few miles later.  She pulled the van into the parking lot of a down-at-the-heels strip mall and stopped.  

"Everybody out," Clarice said lightly.  

A few spaces away was parked a gleaming black Cadillac with tinted windows.  Dr. Lecter looked at it and nodded approvingly.  It would do for the short term.  Large enough to be comfortable for a road trip, and more inconspicuous than a Jaguar or Bentley would have been.  Plus, it did have enough luxury for his tastes. The back seat was large enough that Charlene could lie supine in it.  

He would need some drugs, he thought.  But stopping at a hospital along the way would be easy.  Hopefully Charlene would remain unconscious until that happened.  Just in case, Dr. Lecter took the tranquilizer gun and put it next to him in the passenger seat.  He took a pen and paper from the van's clutter and scribbled a brief note, which he left on the driver's seat of the van.    

"Do you know where we're going?"  he asked.  

Free of the immediate need to carry out the escape, Clarice threw her arms around him and held him tightly.  She squeezed him for a long moment, relishing in his presence.  They were both free and together.  That was all that she had ever wanted.  And now she had it again.

"Oh yes," she said.

But escape was still necessary and their pursuers were not _that _far behind.  So Clarice let him go and started the Cadillac.  She pulled out, picked up the highway again, and the Cadillac blended easily into the traffic of the highway, heading sedately north.  

…

Perhaps twenty minutes later, the parking lot was bathed in flickering red lights.  A forensics team was crawling over the van.  They'd already identified Clarice Starling's fingerprints all over the wheel.  They were working on fingerprints that they'd found on the walls and side, but Crawford already knew they would be identified as Dr. Lecter's.  He found himself wondering about the blood.  They'd found a bloodstain on the ground at the airport.  Another on the wire of the cut fence.  And a third one on the floor of the van.  But it wasn't much; certainly not enough to suggest death.  

One of the technicians walked up to him and held out a piece of paper in a plastic evidence bag.  Crawford eyed him calmly.  

                "Sir, you should have a look at this," the tech said.  

                Crawford reached out and took the paper with a shaking hand.  "Why me?"  

                "It's addressed to you, sir," the technician said, and slipped away before Crawford had a chance to react.  

                Jack Crawford read the note. It was hardly Dr. Lecter's style.  No fine paper, no fancy pen.  Just a memo pad that Clarice Starling had picked up and a regular ballpoint. But the contents were pure Lecter.  

                _Dear Jack,  _

                Here we are again.  Déjà vu, is it not?  Were you planning a celebration upon my transfer to prison?  I'm afraid your jubilee is premature.  Jack, really.  I had been willing to leave you alone up until now.  Why can you not allow me the same privilege? 

_                I took the liberty of taking your Starling, by the way.  You had planned to deprive me of mine, so it is fair play.  Tell me, Jack, did you relish her pain?  That's obviously what you used to drive her to capture me.  Fear not, I'll release her eventually, once she is no longer of use to you. Currently she's asleep and looks quite peaceful – a peace she probably hasn't known since coming to work for you, and a peace you attempted to deny Clarice and I.  We'll reclaim ours, though.  Hunt us if you will, but you won't catch us again.  Really, you might as well write it off.  _

_                We're very much alike, Jack.  Much more so than you would care to admit. It sounds at first glance like you were involved in some naughty behavior vis-à-vis my wife.  If that's true, then may I suggest you get some Botox injections injected facially?   The wrinkles are quite deeply graven in the photograph of you on the FBI web site.  The reason I recommend that, Jack, is that if I discover you did anything to my wife that resembles what I think you did, I'll be repaying that with interest.  Have you ever seen a dead person all made up and painted like a two-dollar trollop?  Gruesome, isn't it?  That's not how you want to be remembered, is it?  I think not.  _

_                Sincerely, _

_                Hannibal Lecter, MD_

                Jack Crawford's lips split back from his teeth in a snarl.  His face turned red. He threw the paper on the ground and went back to his car, and when the media arrived he refused to answer any questions.  


	16. Beta State

                _Author's note:  This chapter was delayed by my kid's second birthday party – a lot of fun for him but exhausting for us, as we had to get the place shipshape and then had a bunch of jumpy kids and grandparents all over at once.  But it's all over now, and my kid scored some pretty good loot, and I got to finish this chapter._

The beta state of consciousness is one that most humans are intimately familiar with, even if they don't know what it is.  It is simply the conscious, aware, wakeful state.  The delta state is the state of normal sleep.  It was from the delta state of consciousness to the beta state that Charlene Starling returned the day after Dr. Lecter's escape from custody.

                The room she was in was warm and pleasant, and she was lying in a bed.  Her skin was scented with some sort of ointment that smelled pleasant.  She wore flannel pajamas that were warm and comfortable.  Her left arm lay across her abdomen in a sling.  Drowsily, she opened her eyes.  There was another presence in the room.  A figure bent over her cautiously as she stirred.  

                "Momma?" Charlene asked sleepily, and blinked her eyes.  

                "You've been out for several hours," the figure said.  A woman's voice, touched with the same drawl as her own.  "You feeling OK?"  

                Memories began to come back to her slowly.  "My…my shoulder hurts," she said.  

                "You were shot," the figure answered.  

                Charlene's eyes opened.  "Am I…?" 

                "You're OK," the figure said.  "The bullet went clean through your shoulder.  Nothing broken.  You should heal up just fine, the doctor says."  

                Charlene sat up in the bed and touched her right shoulder with her left hand.  She could feel a bandage over it and some pain when she touched it.  She grimaced.  On the right side of her bed was a nightstand with a darkened lamp.  She reached across for it, trying to reach the lamp's pull switch.  The figure noticed what she was doing and reached across for it for her, as the figure had two arms.  

                Charlene's original belief that it was her mother in the room with her had been understandable, she having just woken up, but in error.  It was not Patty Stenson but Clarice Starling who hovered over her.  She looked at Charlene with a mixture of guilt and concern.  After a moment, Charlene remembered why.  

                "Aunt Clarice," she said, the sleepiness banished from her voice.  

                "That's me, honey," Clarice said.  "How're you feeling?"  

                "You shot me," Charlene said, and slid off the bed hurriedly.  Her eyes locked onto Clarice's and watched her as she might watch a rabid dog.  Her right arm was firmly trapped in the sling, but her legs worked fine.  She backed away a few steps tensely.  

                "Charlene, c'mon," Clarice said.  "I did, yes.  I _had _to.  But I never meant to hurt you."  

                "My ass," Charlene said.  "I want my clothes and my gun.  Now."  

                "We've got those for you," Clarice promised.  "Charlene, now listen to me.  No one is going to hurt you."  

                "You _shot _me," Charlene panted.  

                "You were going to kill a man who was on his knees in front of you and no harm to anyone," Clarice pointed out.  "Now c'mon.  Listen to me.  We're going to help you."  

                Charlene watched her aunt tensely.  Aunt Clarice had _shot _her.  Shot her in order to save Dr. Lecter.  She seemed remorseful, but that didn't change the facts.  Aunt Clarice had shot her.  Aunt Clarice could not be trusted.  

                Mr. Crawford had been right.  Aunt Clarice _had _been brainwashed.  Charlene had been a fool to believe her.  Now, if Aunt Clarice was here, that meant so was Dr. Lecter, even if he wasn't right here in sight.  

                She'd been a fool to trust her aunt, and she would pay with her life.  

                "Git away from me," Charlene said, and backpedaled.  She held her left hand up in front of herself to defend herself as best as she could.  Her eyes flicked from Aunt Clarice to the door.  The bedroom door was open.  Beyond it lay a perfectly ordinary hallway.

                She tugged on her right arm and then felt something between the fingers of her pinioned right hand.  A rope.  A rope extended from the sling under her wrist and circled her waist.  She tried to move her right arm away from her body and found she could not.  Loops of rope neatly held it to the line around her middle.  Her right arm was tied around her.  It wasn't a sling.  It was half a straitjacket.  

                "Charlene, look," Clarice said.  "I really need to talk with you.  I felt terrible about having to shoot you.  But I'm not going to hurt you now.  I promise."  

                She seemed very believable.  But it had to be a lie.  Dr. Lecter must've done a real good job brainwashing her.  Even the story she'd sold Charlene about being tortured in the hospital was probably a fish story.  All along, she'd been Dr. Lecter's pawn.   She'd probably look just as regretful when Dr. Lecter was cooking up some part of Charlene's guts and serving them with shallots and berries and stuff.  

                She had to get out of here.  God only knew where her gun and clothes were.  Heck with 'em.  She could replace those.  She couldn't replace her life.  Get out of here, away from her nutty aunt and her cannibal lover.  

                Charlene feinted left.  Aunt Clarice moved to stop her, holding her hands up as if Charlene was being unreasonable in not wanting to become Dr. Lecter's dinner.  A look of regret and pain crossed Aunt Clarice's face.  But she fell for the feint, moving a bit closer to intercept her niece.  

                Charlene lunged.  She dodged right, bringing her closer to the door.  At the same time, she brought up her left arm and punched her aunt as hard as she could in the jaw.   Clarice staggered, her hands rising to her face.  That was her opening, and she took it.  

                Charlene Stenson Starling ran through the short hallway as if all the demons of hell were pursuing her.  Her bare feet slapped the carpeted floor.   When the hallway ended, she glanced quickly both ways.  The left led to a bathroom.  Charlene turned right and then stopped dead.  A chill ran up her spine.  The color fell out of her face.  

                To the right was a small landing.  Below that, a stairway.  At the base of the stairway was a wooden front door.  On the landing was Dr. Hannibal Lecter.  He had some medical instruments arranged on a table, and he was calmly filling a syringe from a vial.  He turned when he heard her and gave her a surprised look.  His head tilted like that of a parrot.  

                He was free and she was unarmed.  She _had _to get away.  God only knew what was in that vial.  God only knew what the sick bastard meant to do to her.  Some part of her would end up in a cooking pot if she didn't do something.  

                Clarice hollered something from the bedroom.  Footsteps came padding soft on the carpet.  Dr. Lecter took a step towards her. Charlene's eyes widened and she dodged helplessly, her body straining towards the stairway as if mere desire alone, if strong enough, could teleport her six feet or so to the safety of the stairs.  

                Dr. Lecter pivoted with the grace of a dancer.  His slender fingers slipped easily into the rope around Charlene's waist.   He knew it would hold.  He'd tied her arm there himself.   Charlene's feet tottered over the bare space of the first stairway riser.  Then Dr. Lecter gently pulled her back and bore her to the floor easily.   He lowered his body so that he was sitting on her legs.  She couldn't rise and couldn't kick.  Dr. Lecter had learned a great deal of how to restrain people, from both his own prior victims and from his time in the asylum.  

                Clarice appeared around the bend of the hallway, rubbing her jaw.  She squatted behind her niece and calmly took hold of her free left wrist, pinning it against the small of her back.  Dr. Lecter calmly uncapped the syringe and examined its contents.  

                With her free hand, Clarice patted Charlene's shoulder calmingly.   

                "It's OK," she said soothingly.  "Dr. Lecter's going to help you."  

                Pinioned and helpless, Charlene did not share her aunt's opinion.  Her eyes remained firmly locked on Dr. Lecter.  Dr. Lecter the sociopath, Dr. Lecter the murderer, Dr. Lecter the monster.  And now she was in his grasp.  Her heart hammered in her ears.  Her body poured useless adrenaline into her system. 

                "No, it ain't OK," she quavered.  "He's not gonna help me.  I don't want his help.  You know what he's gonna do to me, Aunt Clarice.  You know."  

                Her brains?  Her kidneys?  Her liver?  What torment for her was brewing in that devil's mind behind those maroon eyes?  Or was it something even worse, something more horrible that he had planned for the agent who caught him?  He hadn't killed Will Graham, but that sure wasn't for lack of effort.  Charlene had seen the doctor's crime scenes.  She harbored no illusions of what he was capable of.

                She strained again, trying desperately to throw him off.  Her right arm was immovable in its bonds.  Aunt Clarice's grip on her left was inescapable. She was murmuring comfortingly into Charlene's ear, as if it would make the transition from FBI agent to meal easier for her.  Dr. Lecter favored her with a cool smile.  

                "This isn't a promising start, Charlene," Dr. Lecter said mildly.  "But…I've had worse."  

                The needle stung her upper arm.  Charlene let out a wail of despair.  But that was all she would allow herself.  She wouldn't give the monster the pleasure of hearing her beg.  It wouldn't do any good.   But she let herself wail once, knowing she was irretrievably lost.   Her sight began to blur.  Dr. Lecter's eyes burned on hers, cruelly magnanimous with cold victory.  Behind her, her brainwashed aunt still murmured calmly to her.  She'd probably keep doing it right until Dr. Lecter sawed the top of her head off or pulled out her kidneys or whatever atrocity he had in store for her.

                Then the darkness closed in, and Charlene knew no more.  


	17. Dr Lecter's Last Patient

                For Charlene, the remainder of her time there in the house was quite calm.  She lay somewhere in the borderlands of lucidity.  Life in the house was quiet, peaceful, and circumscribed.  She was restricted to the house, but she was not a prisoner.  It was more akin to parents with a small child.  They would not let her leave the house without one of them there, but that was for her own safety and well being, not to confine her.           

                There was no pain.  Her shoulder wound was treated and appropriate painkillers were provided.  There were other drugs as well; pills and hypodermics, more than she had ever taken before.  She was unable to keep track of them.  Fortunately, her psychiatrist could.

                Dr. Lecter set about his therapy with due care.  The first problem was a rather unique one.  It was exceptionally difficult to begin therapy when the patient despised the psychiatrist and believed him to be evil beyond redemption.  It would have made for an interesting article.  But Dr. Lecter's knowledge of the human mind and how to alter its perceptions properly was unrivaled.  He combined the latest psychotropic drugs with a modified version of the insulin-coma therapy used in the nineteen-thirties.  When necessary, Dr. Lecter could induce coma, but it was his theory that more could be accomplished when the patient was stuporous but conscious.   He did bring her all the way down to a stage three coma once, but found that the extra benefit was negligible when weighed against the time and effort of caring for a completely comatose patient. 

                He found a novel way around the problem of Charlene's feelings towards him.  It took him two days to construct a disconnect in Charlene's perception of him.  For Charlene, there were two men now.  There was Dr. Lecter, the murdering monster she had dedicated herself to capturing.  There was a new man now, as well: her uncle.  She knew that he was not her uncle David, the lone brother in the Starling clan, and she knew that he was her Aunt Clarice's husband.  That was about all she knew of her uncle.  

                Normally, it would never have worked.  Charlene was too quick for that.  Dr. Lecter found that psychotropic drugs and insulin injections did a great deal to lower Charlene's resistance as they had Clarice's.  They also allowed him to work much more speedily.  That was good; he didn't have the time.  And after all, if she was his wife's niece, was he not then her uncle?

                Dr. Lecter spent a fair amount of time in therapy with her.  Clarice did not begrudge him that time.  She was happy to have him back.  Now things could get back to the way they used to be.  She was also quietly, solidly convinced that Charlene needed him more.  She had lived the same miserable, high-pressure life in the FBI.  Now she was happy.  She wanted the same for Charlene.  Of course, Charlene would not have Dr. Lecter, but she could still build a life for herself that was more rewarding.  Not under Jack Crawford's yoke.  

                For Clarice, those days were also a chance to discover her maternal side.  That had been so long buried under a veneer of FBI toughness that she was vaguely surprised to find it.  But it was obvious that her niece needed some care. Between the bullet wound to her shoulder, which caused Clarice no end of guilt whenever she saw it, and the array of drugs that Dr. Lecter was employing as skeleton keys to get into her mind, Charlene required care.  Clarice fell to it with a passion that made her think for the first time about having children of her own.  She fed her drugged niece, helped her change, and whatever else needed doing.

                Charlene told Dr. Lecter a great deal of things in those four-hour sessions.  Some he expected, some he did not.  She told him things about herself. She held a great deal of resentment towards those who thought lower of her.  She had been born out of wedlock and there were those who thought her inferior for that.  She spoke with a drawl and there were plenty of Easterners who thought her dumb.  None of those things surprised Dr. Lecter particularly and he privately thought them tedious.  

                 Occasionally she talked about how she had caught him. When she spoke of Dr. Lecter, she spoke of him in the third person.   Like Clarice, she had tracked him by his tastes, but she had added a few things of her own.  One in particular caught his attention.  

                "I also went looking for his teeth," she told him once.  

                Dr. Lecter tilted his head.   He was frankly tired of the country-music complaints of her youth.  This was more interesting.  

                "His teeth?"  Dr. Lecter spoke of himself in the third person as well, in order to maintain the illusion that her uncle and the man she had caught were two separate people.  "How did that work?"  

                She shifted on the couch she occupied.  Her eyes were catlike and half-lidded.  She rarely moved off the couch.  This did not surprise Dr. Lecter, as the drugs in her system would have sedated a man twice her weight to the point of incapacitation.  

                "According to his dental records, Dr. Lecter had four capped teeth," she explained.  "Chilton liked to take his stuff away for little things, petty little things, just to prove he was boss.  So Dr. Lecter didn't have a toothbrush or toothpaste for a while during his time in the asylum.  I figured that Dr. Lecter was gonna need to replace those caps sooner than later once he was out.   Man like him wouldn't bother to go to a dentist.  He's a doctor himself, he's pretty smart.  And really it's just fine sculpting.  He's done that before.  I figured he would either read up and figure out how to make a cap himself, or maybe capture and torture a dentist into telling him." 

                Dr. Lecter sighed.  He had indeed learned to make his own crowns with the use of a few books on dentistry and an old, retired Brazilian dentist who had been willing to show him how it was done.  Some people might think it bizarre, but he had also done his own facial surgery, which struck him as more drastic. Yet Charlene assumed that his means of coping with the world was with torture and brutality.  Did she think he went to the grocery store and tortured the cashier in lieu of paying?  Or slaughtered his barber after getting a haircut?   Honestly, he was not anything resembling the innately bloodthirsty monster she believed him to be.  But he let her continue with it.  

"If he had the right tools and the right materials, he'd be set.  And he could afford them all.  I figured he made one set in the first year after his escape and then would need to get more in maybe five or ten years.  It was coming up.   So I tracked dental supplies for stuff you use to make crowns.  Most dentists would have multiple orders, every month or couple of months.  I found a few going to Argentina that hadn't ever been ordered before.  Matched everything else that was pointing to Argentina too."

_Hmmm, _Dr. Lecter thought, and made a note to actually break down and obtain the services of a dentist.  The crowns he had made were top notch, but he didn't want someone else to figure out what Charlene had.  If she had figured it out she would have left notes.  Charlene had already piggybacked on her aunt's old notes.  A third person pursuing him would have the benefit of both women's work.  

After a few days, she became a bit more trusting.  Dr. Lecter backed off her medication a bit, allowing her closer to the borders of lucidity than before.  He had little concern that she would realize where she was or who was with her.   She was closer to awareness than she had been, but was far enough away from it to cause any problems.  

It occurred to Dr. Lecter that not only had he been denied the presence of Mischa in his life, but he had also been denied meeting any of the children she might have borne. 

On the fourth day, Dr. Lecter went out in order to take care of a few things.  He wanted to take Charlene's therapy to another level.  She was coming along nicely, he thought.  Besides, this would be fun.  He was away most of the day and did not return until after dinner.  Charlene and Clarice had already eaten, and that was fine by him.  The formal dinner would not be until later in Charlene's therapy.  

Dr. Lecter's intent in her therapy was not to take her with him.  He had Clarice and was happy with her.  Instead, rather, his intent was to do what psychiatrists were supposed to do:  help her through the morass of her problems.  She had been obsessed with capturing him.  She had put her faith in Jack Crawford who had used her as an effective tool.  She had been forced to confront that her black-and-white worldview did not allow for reality.  

After eating himself, Dr. Lecter brought Charlene down to the living room of the quiet, rural house he had selected as a hideaway.  Compliantly, she sat down in the heavily padded recliner when he asked her to.  She wore flannel pajamas, a robe, and shearling-lined slippers.  They were a bit too big on her and made her look about twelve.  Clarice sat nearby on the couch, ready nurse to his doctor role.  Therapy would be here today.   Occasionally, Dr. Lecter would bar Clarice from the therapy sessions, since it was absolutely necessary that Charlene be able to discuss anything, including those things that might upset Clarice to hear.  Today was different and so there was no need to guard against such niceties.  

"Charlene," Dr. Lecter asked kindly, "would you care to tell me about why you fear Dr. Lecter?"  Referring to himself in the third person was necessary ever since he had created the disconnect.  

Charlene twitched.  

"He's…he's evil," Charlene said.  

It was direct and to the point, but it wasn't much help.  Dr. Lecter sighed.  

"What is it that he does that is evil?" Dr. Lecter asked.  

"He kills people," Charlene answered.  

"Do you think killing is wrong?"  

Her eyes slid to half-open and stared owlishly at him.  "Of _course _it is.  You can't just kill people."  

"Can you torture them?" Dr. Lecter asked reasonably.  

"No, you can't," Charlene answered.  "That's just…wrong."  

Dr. Lecter nodded.  "So, then," he said.  "If someone tortures another, is it just to punish them?"  

"Course it is," Charlene replied.  

Dr. Lecter smiled and put an avuncular hand on his niece's shoulder.  "Allow me to show you something, then."   He strode out of the room and was gone for a few minutes.  

When he returned, he was wheeling a long cart covered over with a sheet.  Something under the sheet struggled mightily.  The white cotton puffed and billowed.  Dr. Lecter went back into the hallway and came back with a portable electroshock machine he had purchased on the Internet.   He pulled back the sheet with a flamboyant gesture, pleased with himself.  

Dr. Raymond McQuerry lay strapped on the gurney.  A tongue pad had been forced between his teeth.  His eyes were wide with fear.   He saw Clarice and clamped his eyes shut.  He stared at the drugged woman in the recliner with desperate hope.  

"Dr. McQuerry tortured Clarice," Dr. Lecter said.  "It is true, in mitigation, that he did not do so of his own accord.  He was instructed to do so.  Nonetheless, as a psychiatrist, it is his duty, first and foremost, to see to the safety and well-being of his patient.  Do you agree with that?"  

Charlene nodded and stared blankly at the men before her.  

"He did not care for the safety of his patient, Charlene.  He tortured her.  Should he not be punished for that?"  

He could tell that even despite the drugs, she realized on some level what he meant to do.  Something in her was fighting it.  She paused.  

"I guess," she began.  

"Very well," Dr. Lecter said.  He calmly picked up a cable and plugged one end into the electroshock machine and attached an electrode to the other.  With a sponge, he began to apply conductive gel to the unfortunate psychiatrist's temple.  He glanced up and noticed a brief, vicious smile on Clarice Starling's face.  Fortunately, Charlene was seated so she could not easily see her aunt.  Dr. Lecter had seated her this way deliberately.  Yes, since Clarice had given in she was much happier.  

"No," Charlene said.  "Wait.  Wait a minute."  

Dr. Lecter halted and smiled.  

"Was there something else you wanted, Charlene?"  

"This…no, wait," she whispered.  "This isn't right."  

"Whyever not?"  

It took her several moments to form a response. "If he's punished, he ought to get a chance to say his piece," she said finally.  "And go to jail.  Or get his license revoked."  

Dr. Lecter sighed.  "He _has _had a chance to say his piece, Charlene.  We had a lengthy discussion on the drive down about proper uses of electroshock therapy.  Secondly, Dr. McQuerry will almost assuredly _not _go to jail for what he has done.  The deck has been stacked in his favor.  A psychiatrist go to jail?  When did that last happen?  And suspending his license?  That's barely a slap on the wrist for what amounts to deliberate torture."  

She had no answer, but looked unconvinced and distressed. 

"Do you care to hear his confession yourself?  I'm sure he'd be willing to plead his case to you."  

Charlene bit her lip.  This was as Dr. Lecter had hoped.  Paradoxically, he thought, this was both affirming and threatening her black-and-white view of the world.  Affirming it in that Dr. McQuerry deserved punishment for his actions, as would any other criminal.  Threatening it in that Charlene would not agree that it was right for her uncle to administer the punishment himself, here and now.  McQuerry was nothing; a gray little man who meant not a thing in the grand scheme of things.  But he could be useful in her therapy.  This bit of show was for Charlene's benefit, not McQuerry's.   

"Okay," Charlene said doubtfully.  

"As you wish."  

Dr. Lecter unbuckled the strap holding the tongue pad in Dr. McQuerry's mouth.  He removed the device and allowed the other psychiatrist to work his jaw then.  

"Now then," Dr. Lecter said commandingly.  "Dr. McQuerry, pray tell Miss Starling what you told me in the car."  

"I…I had to," McQuerry whispered.  A drop of sweat dripped down his face.  "It wasn't my idea.  I _swear _to God."  

Dr. Lecter grinned.  "Specify, please, doctor."  

"The electroshock treatments on Starling," the bushy-haired psychiatrist stammered.  "I-I…I didn't have a choice.  Crawford said if she didn't cooperate to use electroshock.  Burn her out, he said.  It was his idea.  Please, you've got to believe me."  

Charlene flinched when she heard her boss's name.  Dr. Lecter waited patiently.  

"So?" he asked.  

"So what?" Charlene asked bluntly.  

Dr. Lecter began to wedge the tongue pad back into place.  "Because," he said calmly, "I shall not carry this out until _you _agree that it is the proper thing to do."  

Charlene started, raising her hand to her face.  "But…no, you can't.  It isn't right."  

"Why not?" Dr. Lecter asked.  

She waited for a few seconds while trying to think.  "Because…because that's not how it's done," she said.  "You don't just kill people.  You _can't _just kill people."  

Dr. Lecter's eyes were hooded as he stared at his patient.   "What if I don't kill him?" he asked mildly.  

"You're not,…you can't.  It's not right.," she said miserably.  Dr. Lecter nodded.  She couldn't quite put her finger on her objections.  He could.  Like Clarice before her, she believed in order.  There was a certain way of doing things.  Criminals should be punished, but by the system.  Her faith in the system remained, despite the blows it had taken.  

How limiting.  There was no _fun _in that.  

  "Then what _would _be right, Charlene?" he asked.  

She stopped and thought for a few moments.  Dr. Lecter could almost hear the snap of drugged synapses trying to form coherent thought.  

"Put him in jail," she said finally.  

Dr. Lecter shook his head.  "You know better," he said relentlessly.  "_If _that would actually happen, it would be an acceptable answer.  But it won't, and you know that.  He will never go to jail for what he has done.  Therefore, it lies to us to do what is right."  

Charlene began to tremble.  "But…but…frying his brain ain't right," she whispered powerlessly.  

Clarice Starling arose and walked over to her niece.  She put a calm hand on her uninjured shoulder.  Her tone was like Dr. Lecter's:  calm, understanding, not without sympathy, but relentless.  

"Was it right when he did it to me, Charlene?" she asked.  "I was terrified for my _life.  _I thought I was going to end up some zombified, drooling freak.  You telling me that just because a judge won't put him in jail he should get off scott-free?"  

The extra emotional pressure of her aunt pointing out Dr. McQuerry's crimes against her made her face work.  Dr. Lecter wondered if she might cry.  After a moment or two, her eyes did begin to tear up.  

"No," she said brokenly.  But in her tone was some promise.  She was being dragged kicking and screaming towards the inescapable conclusion, but moving towards it she was.  Of course, Dr. Lecter allowed, the drugs in her system put her at a disadvantage in a debate.  

"Well, then," Dr. Lecter said.  

"Just do it anyway," Charlene burst out.  "It doesn't matter what I say.  You'll do what you want anyway."  

Dr. Lecter shook his sleek head.  "No.  If you continue to maintain that Dr. McQuerry should _not _suffer the same fate he inflicted on Clarice, then I shall not.  I fail to see why you feel that way.  It's an eye for an eye, the oldest form of justice there is. In the absence of the process you prefer, there must be _something._"  

She stared uncertainly at him.  It wasn't any feeling for McQuerry that drove her.  It was herself.  Her own need for order and the system.  Yet it was at cross-purposes:  that same need required that the guilty be punished.  Dr. Lecter waited to see which aspect would win.  

"You…you cain't do it yourself," Charlene said.  "Otherwise…otherwise next thing you know your neighbor's dog craps on your yard so you shoot your neighbor."

_Which means that the system is illusory, and all the order you seek does not exist,_ Dr. Lecter thought.  

            "Not exactly," Dr. Lecter said, "you simply respond in kind.  That is…overreaction.  Now, Charlene.  Choose."  

                "It's all right, Charlene," Clarice added.  "He did it to me.  He's just reaping what he sowed.  _I _deserve justice, too, don't I?"  

                Between the drugs, confusion, and pressure, it was too much for Charlene Starling to bear.  She cowered in her recliner, covering her head with her one free arm.  Tears tracked her cheeks.   Her hand trembled.   And finally she caved.

                "Okay!" she shrieked.  "Fine!  Zap him!  Kill him!  Do it! Just leave me alone!"  

                Dr. Lecter decided that was enough for today.  He applied the electrode to Dr. McQuerry's temple and pressed the button on the electroshock machine.  McQuerry's body arched against the straps as Clarice's had.  Dr. Lecter found this very fitting.  He held the button down for a few minutes and let it go.  Dr. McQuerry went limp.  Charlene flinched.  

                Nonetheless, Dr. Lecter had established what he set out to do.  Therefore, some mercy was in order.  Not for McQuerry, of course, but for his patient.  He could finish the job later, once she was safely sedated and not forced to witness it.  

                He strode away from the drooling, limp form on the gurney and crossed to where Charlene sat in the chair.  She was shaking.  Her first baby steps away from the system, from order.  They were never easy.  But now he could begin the imprinting process.  

                "You did right, Charlene," Dr. Lecter said comfortingly, and patted her shoulder.

                "I don't know what's right anymore," Charlene moaned.  


	18. Liberation

                _Author's note:  Yes, this chapter was a bit longer in the coming – the holiday times, 'Hannibal' on DVD (talk about distraction), a two-year-old with the sniffles who scored massive amounts of Little People and Blue's Clues toys which he promptly scattered all over my living room.  But here we are.  _

For several days after that, Charlene continued her quiet, warm, pleasant existence in her bubble.   There was no pain.  As Dr. Lecter slowly began to introduce her to the concept that there was more to people than the simple white-hat/black-hat she had assigned them previously, he began to discover things he had not expected.  

                Charlene Starling had idolized her aunt for eight years of her life.  She believed – rather reasonably – that Clarice had sacrificed her own life for hers, falling into the clutches of Dr. Lecter so that Charlene might live.  Charlene had dedicated her life to bringing her aunt's murderer to justice.  Clarice had become an icon to the younger woman, occupying the unreachable heights of the saint.  He might have thought that feelings of resentment towards Clarice might have only been recent in origin.  

                But he was mistaken.  Under the influence of hypnotic drugs and in deep hypnosis, she surprised him one day.  

                "Cain't hardly believe how stuck-up she is," Charlene said of her aunt.  "She moved away and got herself all in with that hoity-toity Easterner crowd.  Momma used to invite her home for the holidays.  Every blessed year.  She never came, not once.  Too good for her own kin, I guess."  

                Interesting.  It made sense, though.  For most of Charlene's early life, her aunt had been an icon of rejection.  Then, the McCracken incident, in which Clarice had gone a hundred and eighty degrees.  Instead of being the woman who wanted nothing to do with her kin, she had sacrificed herself for Charlene.  The snooty aunt had been replaced with the saintly aunt.  Dr. Lecter had little doubt that it had been very confusing.  Suddenly, the anger and resentment towards her aunt had to be violently suppressed.  One cannot get angry with a saint. 

                So where had it gone?  Not to McCracken; McCracken was a sad, pathetic shadow of his former self.  Charlene had learned of his mutilation.  He could not hurt her any more.  No, it seemed it had gone to Dr. Lecter himself.  Since Charlene could not be angry with the woman who had sacrificed herself, she had to direct that anger at the man who had killed her.  No wonder she had caught him where others had failed.  More interestingly, now that Charlene knew her aunt was alive, that resentment was coming back, but automatically blocked by the guards that had been in place for so long.  

                Would an apology suffice?  After extensive probing of her mind, Dr. Lecter determined that it might.  But she would need to be reminded that if it was Clarice's place to apologize, it was Charlene's to accept that apology and forgive.  He suggested that to her a few times.  

                Yet it would take time.  It was a process, after all.  He could start it, but he did not have enough time to see it through.  Perhaps, though, Charlene would be able to carry out the rest herself.  The goal of Dr. Lecter's therapy was to diffuse her anger enough that he would not have her pursuing him.  

                Yes, Dr. Lecter thought, that would be useful.  Definitely worth trying.  

                After a few more days of therapy, Dr. Lecter decided that this would be the best thing to do while he arranged for a few other things.  Charlene's shoulder had healed nicely.  He was able to discontinue use of the sling.  

                It was a fine summer day, and light streamed in the window.  Dr. Lecter made a few brief arrangements with Clarice while Charlene napped a sedated nap upstairs.  She had to understand her role.  Normally, people were able to hide anger and resentment under the veneer of politeness and civility.  Charlene would be unable to.  It would be necessary.  She would be no more able to dissimulate than she would be able to grow wings and fly out the window.  

                Clarice understood her role well enough.  She had her own training in psychology, and she understood that she would have to be supportive and understanding.  Vaguely she remembered pouring her heart out to Dr. Lecter, telling him things she had never told anyone.  He'd been interested and encouraged her to continue.  

                Dr. Lecter's car drove away from the country house.  He had his own work to do.  Slowly, with some trepidation, Clarice Starling mounted the stairs and entered her niece's bedroom.  Charlene was sitting up in bed, blinking owlishly.  She looked at her aunt curiously as she entered.  Next to her on the nightstand were several hypodermic needles lined up with military precision.  A sheet of paper under them bore instructions on their use.  

                Clarice swallowed.  "Hi, Charlene," she said, and summoned a nervous smile.  

                "Aunt Clarice," Charlene said, still seeming drowsy.   The tranquilizer Dr. Lecter had given her had not entirely worn off yet.  "How're yew?"  

                "All right," Clarice said.  "Dr. Lec—_your uncle," _catching herself, "wanted me to give you these shots.  He said we ought to talk."  

                "I need shots in order to talk?" Charlene asked, puzzled.  

                _Yes, _Clarice thought, _you do.  Dr. Lecter explained it to me.  You have to be able to talk about things you won't talk about normally, especially in front of me.  _She smiled pleasantly.  "It's what your uncle said, honey.  He's a doctor.  He knows best."  

But Charlene allowed her aunt to give her the injections without complaint.  Dr. Lecter's notes indicated they would require ten minutes or so to take effect, and that Clarice should try and keep her niece calm while they did.   

                "How's your shoulder doing?" Clarice asked.  

                "It's all right," Charlene said.  "A little sore."  Her eyes became slightly watery as they focused on Clarice.  "Aunt Clarice, how come you shot me?"  

                Clarice let out a sigh.  "I had to," she said.  "I had no other choice.  Charlene, you were hysterical.  Don't you remember?  You were going to kill a man who was on his knees, no harm to anyone.  I couldn't let you do that.  It wasn't right."  

                Charlene thought about that fuzzily for a moment.  The drugs seemed to be taking effect.  She seemed more befuddled than she had been.  

                "And what Uncle did to McQuerry was?" she asked.  

                Clarice shrugged.  "Sort of."  

                Charlene shook her head slowly.  "No, it wasn't," she said.  "It wasn't justice, even though you and him both said it was."  

                Clarice swallowed.  Here she had to be careful.  "Well, then, that's okay that you think that," she said delicately.  "What do you think it was, then?"  

                Charlene stared glassily at the wall.  "Revenge," she pronounced.    "It was revenge." 

                Clarice didn't know what to say.  There wasn't much that she _could _say.  

                After a few minutes, Charlene's body relaxed under the influence of the drugs.  It was odd to watch.  She lay slack and relaxed in her bed, staring blankly at the wall.  Clarice cleared her throat and reached for a silver kettle on the dresser.  She put it on the  nightstand where Charlene could see it and asked her to look at it.  Clarice knew a bit about hypnosis from her own college years, and it proved not to be terribly difficult to put Charlene under.  After all, she had been more or less under hypnosis for the past several days.  

                Once she was satisfied, Clarice cleared her throat and began.  

                "Charlene," she said warmly, "I want to talk to you now.  I want you to tell me about why you're so angry."  She licked her lips. "Whatever you want to say, it's OK.  Even if it's about me.  You can be totally honest.   It's all right."  

                Charlene twitched.  She appeared to be thinking, at least as far as the drugs would let her.  

                Perhaps she needed to be more direct.  "Charlene, are you angry at Dr. Lecter?"  

                "Yes," Charlene said in a childlike tone.  

                "Why are you angry with him?  Can you tell me why?"  

                "He took Aunt Clarice," Charlene said.  "He took her and he brainwashed her.  I thought he killed her."  

                Clarice took a deep breath.  She felt like a woman walking through a minefield.  "How about me?"  she asked.  "Are you angry with me?"  

                Charlene did not answer for a few moments, clearly struggling with the answer.  

                "Yes," she said crossly.  

                Clarice sighed.  This was to be expected, Dr. Lecter had told her.  She had to hold back her urge to defend herself or argue.  _You must be the mature one, now, Clarice, _he'd said.  _If you don't, you might easily do worse damage.  If that's what you want, we can do that.  It would be quite easy to damage her to the point that she wouldn't be able to function outside of an institution.  I didn't think that was what you wanted.   _  

                And he'd been right in his assumption.  She didn't want Charlene to suffer any more or damage her worse.  He had given her Charlene's life as a gift.  She didn't want that to be wasted.  

                "Why are you angry with me?" she asked.   A beat or two of silence followed.  Charlene sighed.  

                "Cause," she said.  "You always thought you were better than us.  Better than momma and me.  Ran off East and never looked back.  An' always acted like we were the hillbilly kin.  Momma invited you home for the holidays ever year.  You never showed.  You hardly ever called.  Like you were embarrassed of us."  

                "I…I was sorta thoughtless," Clarice hedged.  

                "Couldn't stand your low-rent relatives," Charlene grumbled.  

                _Easy, Clarice.  She couldn't hold this back even if she wanted to.  _

"Charlene," Clarice began, "Now that's not totally true.  There's some of it.  And I admit that, and I'm sorry.  I was in the FBI.  It's a lot of work.  Hell, you ought to know that.  And well…you also gotta remember.  I sort of resented your mom.  I was the oldest.  She was the baby.  When our dad died, I had to go and live in Montana.  Then…well, that didn't work out so well, so I was sent off to the orphanage."  

                Even drugged, Charlene seemed to be interested.  Clarice suspected she hadn't heard the story before.  Patty had been very young when Clarice had been shipped off to Montana.  

                "It wasn't easy…there I was in an orphanage, all by myself, and your mom was at home, with Mama taking care of her.  She didn't want for a thing.  I was the one on my own.  So I resented her…for that.  What a chance she had.  And then she went…went and got pregnant with you, so young."  Now she had to tread carefully.  "When your mom was your age, Charlene, you were eight and in third grade.  I never had anything against you, hon, but I…I mean, c'mon, you haven't been pregnant at fifteen, so I think you can understand what I'm saying."  

                Clarice wondered for a moment if her words were going to reach Charlene.  Was this going to work?  She hoped it would.  Dr. Lecter had told her it probably would.  

                "Charlene, I've never meant to hurt you.  I'm sorry if I did.  Now I can be sorry about that until the cows come home.  It's up to you to forgive me or not.  I can't make you, but I hope you do – for both me _and _for you.  I never wanted you to follow me into the FBI.  It's just…I was miserable in the FBI.  I don't think you'll be happy there either.  I don't think you _are _happy there, either.  I'm going to go with…your uncle because that's what I have to do to be happy.  I'll talk to you when I can, but I can't always do that.  It's part of the territory."  

                "You think you're better'n me," Charlene said bitterly.  

                Clarice shook her head.   Here, she was surer-footed.  Any belief that she might be better or smarter than Charlene had been erased once Charlene's efforts had resulted in the capture of Dr. Hannibal Lecter.  "I never thought that, Charlene.  Not for a minute.  Look, both of us tried to catch Dr. Lecter.  You got him.  I didn't.  That's that – plenty of people tried to catch Dr. Lecter.  Only ones who ever pulled it off are Will Graham and you."  

                She leaned forward and put her hand on her drugged niece's shoulder.  

                "Charlene, you've done things nobody else did.  When I was your age I got Dr. Lecter to talk to me about Buffalo Bill and I called it good.  You can do anything you want.  What I don't want is for you to pick up a life that I didn't want for myself.  Or for you.  I know you thought Dr. Lecter killed me.  But he didn't.  And I'm going to go and live my own life, and I want you to live yours. I don't want you to go through the same things I did. Hitting the glass ceiling, having to deal with people who work you to death and give you nothing in return.  That life sucks.  I left it.  If that's what you want, then fine, but I don't think it is.  I think you did it because you wanted to catch Dr. Lecter, and you've done that.  Nothing since then reflects on you.  You're still young.  Take some time, Charlene.   Decide what _you _want to do."  She paused.

  "I want you to be free, Charlene."  

                Charlene pondered on that for several moments.  Her face seemed thoughtful.  

                "So what do I do?" she asked.  

                Clarice shrugged.  "What do you _want _to do, Charlene?"  

                A knock at the door interrupted her.  She looked over to see Dr. Lecter standing in the doorway.  

                "Pardon me," he said calmly.  "I've taken care of the things I needed to."  

                Clarice smiled guiltily.  "Okay," she said, not sure what he meant.  

                "I'll allow you two some more time.  Dinner will be at eight.  That should give you a few hours to work things out."  

                Charlene Starling shifted on her bed and eyed her uncle calmly.  "What's for dinner?" she asked.  

                Dr. Lecter smiled.  "You never ask, Charlene," he told her calmly.  "It spoils the surprise."  


	19. Dinner and Guests

                _Author's note: Lots of gore in this chapter.  Bon appetit. Steel, you're correct in believing this one is winding down…but there's a bit of blood in the old man yet…(I'm mangling Shakespeare, don't mind me.)  On with the show, Dear Reader…._

                Clarice Starling dressed for dinner with a certain sense of satisfaction.  Dr. Lecter had selected a dress for her, and it was up to his usual taste.  Black, silk, and quite pretty.  She would have to get Charlene dressed as well, and that was going to be an issue.  Drugged or not, Charlene was not going to like it.  Dr. Lecter did not quite understand that, she thought.  In the lexicon of Charlene Starling, there was useless, very useless, and then there was froufrou girly crap.  

                She carried the long dress bag into Charlene's bedroom.  Charlene herself was still sitting in bed.  She eyed her aunt and the long bag warily.   

                "What's that?" she asked suspiciously.  

                "Clothes," Clarice answered, and smiled brightly.  "This is a fancy dinner.  You want to look nice, don't you?"  She unzipped the bag and revealed the dress.  It was a light silvery gray, strapless, and went to the floor.  Matching shoulder-length gloves and shoes completed the ensemble. Charlene stared at the dress as if it was a dead raccoon.  

                "I ain't wearing that," she said flatly.  "I don't go for all that…froufrou girly crap."  

                Clarice sighed.  She had no parental experience to fall back on.  How had Patty dealt with this?  She probably hadn't.  She found herself wondering if Charlene had insisted on wearing pants to her prom.  Or had she gone? Clarice hadn't.  

                "C'mon, Charlene," she coaxed.  "This is a black tie affair.  Everyone's going to be dressed up.   I am.  Your uncle's got a tux.  I can't let you go down there in pajamas. Your uncle would kill me."  

                Charlene stuck her chin out defiantly.  "Aunt Clarice, I don't do dresses an' heels an' pantyhose.  That's for stuck-ups.  I _work _for a living.  Cain't have all that froufrou when you're working the street."  

                Clarice sighed.   "You're not working the street now."  

                "Still don't like all that froufrou crap," Charlene answered.  

                _Is that going to be necessary?  _Dr. Lecter had shown enormous restraint and patience towards the young woman who had incarcerated him.  He would not be happy if Charlene refused to wear the dress.  

                "Give it a try, Charlene," Clarice tried again.  "C'mon, it's fun once in a while." 

                Charlene rolled her eyes.  

                "Please, Charlene?  Do it for me.  Your uncle will be mad at me if you don't wear it."  

                Charlene Starling sighed heavily, as if asked to take on a burden more than mortal man could bear.  

                "Fine," she said.  

                Clarice shrugged.  "Thanks, honey," she said calmly.  

                Getting Charlene into the dress was not as difficult as she thought, since her niece now had the use of her right arm.  Charlene glared at her own reflection in the mirror.  Clarice noticed the scar along her shoulder and was reminded of herself, at the dinner with and of Paul Krendler.  

                "Well, now, don't you look nice," Clarice said, and brought her niece downstairs to where Dr. Lecter was waiting.  He wore a neat tuxedo, sharply pressed.  His pants bore razor-edge creases.   He had his cookware set up.  Some monstrously expensive pan was set up on a monstrously expensive LP gas burner.  Clarice smiled gently at him.  He did _so _love to cook.  

                "Ladies," Dr. Lecter said, smiling.  "You look quite lovely."  He conducted each to her seat in turn, offering his arm gentlemanly.  When he sat Charlene down, he slid a needle into her arm as she sat.  It was quite thin, and Charlene did not seem to notice its insertion.  Nor did it bleed when he withdrew it.  

                The first course was a salad, with finely chopped greens.  The amounts he served to them were quite small.  Charlene seemed puzzled; it wasn't like Dr. Lecter's hospitality.  Clarice smiled.  She knew his reason.  He didn't want them to fill up on salad.  The main course was coming.  

                "Your therapy is coming along nicely, Charlene," Dr. Lecter said.  "I'm quite pleased with your progress."  

                "Thank you," Charlene said.  

                "I do trust you're ready for the next step."  

                Charlene appeared to think that over.  "I guess we'll have to see," she said.  

                "Indeed," Dr. Lecter agreed.  He was curious to see what she would do.  He wondered if she had the .45 with her.  He hadn't seen any bulges on her leg that might indicate its presence.  Even if she had it, Dr. Lecter wasn't concerned.  He had carefully rounded up the cartridges for it.  If she tried to stop him without the gun, the drugs he'd given her would slow her down enough that he could regain control of the situation before things got too unpleasant.  

                Calmly, Dr. Lecter walked back into the kitchen and reappeared with a stout oak armchair on a dolly.  This had worked well for him before.  Seated in the armchair was Jack Crawford.  He wore a tuxedo as well.  His arms and body were bound firmly to the chair with black duct tape.  Dr. Lecter had been most delighted to find black duct tape for sale on the Internet.  The ugliness of the more common light gray against the tuxedo would have marred the outline.  Another piece firmly covered his mouth.  He seemed quite scared.  Beads of sweat rose on his forehead.  

                Clarice Starling smiled with no sympathy at her old boss.  Charlene Starling blinked at him and watched him with no expression.  His eyes flicked back and forth between the two women.  

                "I believe you both know Section Chief Jack Crawford," Dr. Lecter said.  He bent down and whispered in the other man's ear.  

                "Now, Jack, I'll be willing to take the tape off your mouth and allow you to join the conversation.  I will remind you, though.  Screaming is rude, and you know how I feel about rude people."  

                Jack Crawford trembled and nodded.  

                "Very well, then," Dr. Lecter said, and removed the tape.  

                "Clarice," Crawford said hoarsely.  

                "Mr. Crawford," Clarice said.  "So, surprised?  I'm not a vegetable after all."  

                Crawford stared at the floor and said nothing.  

                "I guess I just want an answer, Mr. Crawford," Clarice continued.    "Did you make that decision?  Yes or no.  And if so, why?"  

                Crawford trembled.  It seemed almost as if he was being shocked by a small but constant electric current.  Clarice wondered if he was.  Dr. Lecter could have done that.  It would be ironic.  But somehow she didn't think he had.  He'd already done it to McQuerry.  He'd been true to his word.  Dr. McQuerry was still alive.  Well, she allowed, that would have to be qualified.  Dr. McQuerry's body still lived.  However, he would quote no more rules to anyone.  The repeated shocks had rendered him mute and drooling.  Clarice wondered if the damage would heal or not.  

                Whatever he had planned for Crawford would be more final.  

                "You'll kill me anyway," Crawford said.  It sounded like his tongue was dry.  His eyes abandoned Clarice, knowing she would not help, and sought out Charlene's.  

                "Charlene," he said.  "_Agent Starling. _  If you can hear me…somewhere in there, if you can hear me…you know this isn't right."  

                Charlene blinked and looked vaguely confused.  Clarice glanced over at her to see what she might do.  Would that get a reaction out of her?  Had Dr. Lecter's therapy held?  

                "I can hear you, Mr. Crawford," Charlene said in a chilly but respectful tone.  

                "Starling, now listen to me.  You…you know what they're going to do to me."  

                Charlene considered.  "Why did you do what you did to Aunt Clarice?" she asked finally.  

                Crawford trembled.  He seemed to realize there was no way around the question.  His hands shook uselessly above where his wrists were bound to the chair.  

                "I…I rolled the dice.  I had to," he said, knowing full well his rationalizations would fall on deaf ears.  "Dr. Lecter had to go to prison.  _You _should know that better than anyone, Charlene.  You worked so hard to put him away.  Made me proud of you.  If Clarice wasn't going to cooperate and would've testified in his favor…we had to do something.  Putting Dr. Lecter away was all I ever wanted to do."  

                Charlene's eyes burned at him.  Crawford looked away.  If they'd gotten to _her, _he was as good as dead.  Dr. Lecter tilted his head and eyed his niece calmly.  He was waiting for a particular word.  

                "Putting Dr. Lecter in prison _was _important," she said, and seemed conflicted.  "But that couldn't possibly justify what you did to Aunt Clarice.  If you had a case against her you could've put her in jail.  Put her on trial.  I'd have had no problem with that.  But trying to fry her just so you could use her as a pawn against Dr. Lecter?  That's just…that is _heartless, _Mr. Crawford."  

                Dr. Lecter smiled.  Very good.  

                Crawford did not protest further.  Dr. Lecter leaned over him and cleared his throat.  

                "Yes," he said, his voice carrying.  He seemed like a great orator to the two women sitting at the dinner table; one the woman who loved and admired him and the other heavily drugged and unsteady.  "Heartless, Mr. Crawford.  A fitting choice of words, don't you think?"  

                Dr. Lecter unbuttoned Crawford's dinner jacket and opened it.  He undid the Velcro catch at the back of the section chief's neck.  When he lifted it free, it became obvious that Crawford's shirt was in fact a dickey, with the bow tie integral to it.  Merely a rectangular patch of cloth with a collar.  Dr. Lecter put the dickey down on the floor.  

                Jack Crawford shirtless was not a lovely sight to behold.  His stomach was crusted with gray hair. At his chest was a large, mostly square hole.  It was framed in gauze pads. Although Dr. Lecter had done his level best to ensure that every last blood vessel was tied off or cauterized, there was still a bit of blood.  

                The flesh had been carefully cut away, and the protecting ribs cut off neatly and then sanded so that they would not stick out and spoil the effect.  The hole was neatly square.  This had taken several hours of work and Dr. Lecter was rather proud of it, even if he did say so himself.  

                Crawford's naked heart beat slowly, pulsing with bloody life as it had for almost eight decades.  

                He glanced pleadingly at Charlene and Clarice in turn.  Clarice simply stared back at him with a hardness in her eyes he had never seen before.  Charlene simply looked shocked, as if this was beyond her capability to take.  

                "Yes, Jack, heartless indeed," Dr. Lecter continued.  He placed several sets of hemostats on Crawford's dinner plate.  He then rolled up a machine on a cart to Crawford's side.  Crawford looked sick.   Charlene looked distressed.  Dr. Lecter donned a surgical robe and a pair of veterinary gloves that went up to his elbow.  

                Dr. Lecter was quite impressed with the heart-lung bypass machine he had borrowed from a local hospital.  New advances in technology had rendered the machine much smaller than before.  Dr. Lecter had paid careful attention to how to operate the machine and believed he could do it.  If not, they would simply be denied some dinner conversation.  It was a chance he was willing to take. 

                It took longer than Dr. Lecter expected to attach the proper tubes and suture them to where he needed to.  A few books on organ transplants had told him what he needed to know.  But Dr. Lecter was quick and decisive with his motions.  He turned the machine on and removed Jack Crawford's heart.  

                Crawford's color looked poor – a sickly gray.  Yet not a drop fell from the tubes connecting him to the heart-lung machine.   His eyes remained open.  He trembled.  

                Across the table, Charlene's eyes were wide.  She stared at Dr. Lecter for a few moments.  Her mouth worked.  She tried to get up from her chair.  When she did, he knees gave out on her and she slid to the floor.  Dr. Lecter glanced over at this.  A bit of backsliding; it wasn't too bad.   No therapy went a hundred percent all the time.

                "Clarice, I've got my hands full over here," he said mildly, putting the heart into a deep steel bowl.  "Would you mind?"  

                Clarice nodded and stood herself, helping her niece to her feet.  Determined blue eyes met wide, terrified blue eyes.  

                "Aunt Clarice, _no, _you can't do this," she said.  

                "Charlene," Clarice said, "it's all right."  

                "No, it isn't," Charlene panted.  She tottered a bit.  Clarice held her wrists firmly, giving her a steely gaze.  

                "Your uncle is doing what has to be done," Clarice said.  "You know what he did."  

                "This isn't right," Charlene insisted.  

                Clarice sighed.  "Charlene, hon, just sit down.  You might as well anyway.  You can't do anything else."  

                "Aunt Clarice," Charlene said hurriedly, "there are five aspects to your border profile and six of Dr. Lecter's.  Don't do this and I'll tell you what they are."  

                Across the table, Dr. Lecter's voice was jaunty.  "I'm afraid it's too late for that, Charlene.  It's already done.  Now please, sit down and let's eat."  

                Dr. Lecter took the bowl into the kitchen, not wanting to upset his patient any more than necessary.  Besides, he would be able to wash out the blood and remove his protective garb in relative privacy.  It took only a moment or two to stuff the gloves and robe in the trash.  Then he set to rinsing out the heart of its blood in the kitchen.  

                Back in the dining room, Crawford's eyes met Clarice's.  

                "Are….are you happy now?" he stuttered.  

                Clarice's eyes flashed.  "Mr. Crawford," she said, "once I admired you more than anyone else in the world.  And even after I left, I would have been more than willing to let you live your life out.  _You _drove us to this.  You have no one to blame for this but yourself.  Dr. Lecter would've allowed you to live even after you tried to track him.  But trying to fry me?  That was petty, cruel…and _heartless._"  She smiled coldly.  

                His eyes turned to Charlene.  

                "Charlene," he said, and his tone was almost begging.  "Are you going to let them just kill me?  You know you're next.  What're they going to do to you?"  

                Charlene's face was almost as gray as her dress.  "They…they ain't killed me yet," she said shakily.  "They could've if they wanted to."  

                "That's for now," Crawford said.  "They're gonna kill me.  You're next." 

                A strange mixture of drugged yet naked fear spilled across Charlene's face. 

"Maybe they can give you an Abiocor," Charlene said in a tone that suggested madness at the gate. 

 Clarice got up and patted her niece calmingly.  Charlene turned and buried her face in her aunt's shoulder, trembling and ill.  Above her, Clarice's eyes shone at Crawford with anger.  There would be no succor for this black sheep from her.  

"We're not going to kill you, Mr. Crawford," she said, continuing to calm her niece as best she could.  "We're going to let you…sit there.  Sit there and live for as long as you can.  Maybe Charlene's right.  Maybe they can give you an artificial heart, or a transplant.  Fine by us.  All we want is a nice dinner."  

Dr. Lecter came in bearing a covered tray.  He set it down at the head of the table.  A rich smell of cooked meat came from it.  With a flourish, Dr. Lecter removed the cover and displayed the result.  It looked much like any other slice of meat, already cut into wafer-thin slices.  They were stewing in a fine-smelling sauce.  Calmly, Dr. Lecter began to walk around the table, serving a few slices to each person at the table.  Clarice accepted hers with a bit more malicious relish than Dr. Lecter had expected.  Then again, he supposed, Clarice _had _suffered a great deal at Crawford's hands.   Completely needlessly, too.  He could allow her a bit of anger.  

Charlene stared glassily at the strips of meat on her plate.  Dr. Lecter had prepared a spinach _mousselline _as a side dish and he spooned some onto her plate as well.  She poked at that with a fork as if distrusting it.  Crawford stared helplessly at his own helping.  Dr. Lecter had given him medication so that the procedure of opening the chest was painless, but his consciousness was not degraded in the slightest; he knew exactly what was happening.  

Calmly, Dr. Lecter assumed his own seat. 

"Mr. Crawford, would you say grace?" he asked politely.  

Crawford's face had turned slightly gray.  Dr. Lecter supposed the perfusion machine was keeping him alive imperfectly.  Well, all he had ever hoped for was that Jacky-boy would last through dinner conversation.  

How perfect, Dr. Lecter thought.  A final victory dinner.  He had taken away Jack's protégé not once, but twice.   

"Bless…bless us, O Lord, and these gifts we are about to…re…receive," Crawford wheezed.    He fell silent, unable to continue.  

"Brief.  Good enough.  Thank you, Jack."  Dr. Lecter said, and fell to eating.  Clarice grinned coldly once at her tormentor and ate with gusto.  Charlene stared at the strips of meat on her plate nervously.  

"Is something wrong, Charlene?" Dr. Lecter asked kindly.  

"Well,…no," she said.  "It's just….I mean…this is…,"  

"A dinner," Dr. Lecter said.  "Now, please.  Eat. You'll quite like it once you've tried it."  As if to demonstrate, he forked another mouthful into his own mouth.  It was quite good, considering it was almost eighty years old.  Not really tough or gamy at all.  The sauce did _wonders _for it.  

Charlene speared a strip of meat with her fork and trembled.  She stared at her fork for several long moments, as if weighing something in her mind.  Then she clamped her eyes shut, swallowed, and ate it.  

"Very good," Dr. Lecter said approvingly.  He gathered up some for Jack Crawford and held it out to him.  Crawford turned away, his face looking like that of a corpse.  

"Now, Jack, do try some," Dr. Lecter said reprovingly.  "You've given more than anyone else for this meal.  Don't be rude."  

Jack Crawford shuddered and ate obediently.  

"So, tell me, Charlene," Dr. Lecter said lightly.  "Are you planning to continue in the FBI?"  It would mean something for Jacky-boy to hear before Dr. Lecter decided to switch off the perfusion machine.  

Charlene shook her head.  "Can—_May _I have a glass of wine?" she asked.  

Dr. Lecter pursed his lips.  "I don't think that's a good idea," he said mildly.  "It might react with your medication."  

"Brainwashing…_bastard," _Crawford whispered through lips dry as a tombstone.  

Dr. Lecter sighed.  "No, no," he said.  "I told you back in prison, Jack.  You wouldn't keep her for long.  You never do.  Will, Clarice, and now Charlene.  I seem to always end up prizing the best away from you somehow.  But come now.  Let us have pleasant conversation."  

And pleasant conversation – or a reasonable facsimile thereof – reigned throughout the end of the meal.  Clarice talked avidly of her plans for the future.  Charlene had considered going back to school, or so she said.  For more psychology.  Dr. Lecter privately thought a psychologist with a PhD only armed for half the battle, and he doubted Charlene would try medical school.  Too bad. She was clever enough for it.  

At the end of the meal Dr. Lecter served cappuccino.  Crawford's was served through a straw, as Dr. Lecter did not want the bother of having to hold the cup for him.  Crawford took a sip and spit out the straw.  

"It's all right, Jack," Dr. Lecter advised.  "After all, it's not like too much caffeine will raise your heart rate."  He smiled at his own _bon mot.  _

Suddenly, the lights overhead plunged into darkness.  The sounds of shattering glass and male shouts filled the room.  Confusion ranged around the table.  

When the lights came back up five minutes later, there were at least ten other people in the room.  They wore black fatigues and held machine guns in their hands.  Two were at Dr. Lecter's seat.  One held him pinned down flat over the table.  The other held a machine gun pointed at the back of his head.  Two were at Clarice's seat, holding her similarly.  One stood over Charlene, although he did not restrain her.  Another stood over Jack Crawford.  

Agent Lloyd Bowman, Crawford's second-in-command, entered the room and stared around in shock.  Dr. Lecter let out a sigh.  Clarice glared at him with a mixture of open hate and fear.  Charlene stared glassily at him as if only barely recognizing him.  

"What the _hell _is going on here?" he asked.   


	20. Choosing Sides

                Agent Lloyd Bowman stared around the table at each person in turn.  His face was white with shock.  Dr. Lecter sat, calm even in defeat.  Clarice seemed nervous.  Charlene seemed…well, out there somewhere.  She stared back at hinm   And Mr. Crawford…Bowman had to look away. 

                "What the _hell _is going on here?" Bowman repeated.  

                "We were having dinner," Dr. Lecter said helpfully.  

                Bowman's eyes settled on the wreck that had once been his boss.  Jack Crawford slumped in his chair, unmistakably dead.  Bowman trembled.  All that experience, all that wisdom…gone.  

                Bowman exhaled sharply.  "All right, then.  As of right now, you are all under arrest.  The charge is kidnapping and murder of a federal officer."  He turned and gave orders to his team.  "Cuff them, Mirandize them, and bring them to the nearest jail we got.  I'll make the determination on where to send them in the morning."  

                Dr. Lecter stood courteously to be handcuffed.  He glanced over at the ID card clipped to Bowman's lapel.  The machine gun at the back of his head never wavered.  

                "Agent Bowman, might I have a word with you?"  

                Bowman gave him a distrusting look, but he did have the man's attention.  

                "I should like you to have all the facts," he said calmly.   "Charlene Starling is hardly answerable for her own actions at this point.  A blood test will indicate she is heavily drugged.  Clarice had no part in either the kidnapping of Jack Crawford or in our meal, other than as a diner.  _I _am solely responsible for that – but not his murder."  He glanced around at the rest of the officers.  "I am saying that with full knowledge that it may be used against me in a court of law, by the way, and knowingly waiving my Miranda rights."  

                Lloyd Bowman's eyes narrowed.  "If you didn't kill him, then who did, Dr. Lecter?" he asked sarcastically.  

                "Whomever it was who made the decision to cut off power to the house," Dr. Lecter explained.  "I'm afraid the battery cut-over did not function.  Once you shut off the electricity, you shut off the machine keeping him alive."  

                Bowman's eyes bulged for a moment.  

                "Thus, I didn't kill him.  You did," Dr. Lecter finished.  

                For a moment, no one said a thing.  Then Bowman cleared his throat and began to get things under control.  At least as much as they could be.  

                "Okay," he said.  "Get Starling out of that dress and in something else.   Do we have anything else we can put her in?"  

                Clarice sighed and glared at him openly.  "Her clothes are upstairs," she said coldly.  "There's no evidence in them you'd find useful."  

                Bowman met her gaze.  "I'll make that judgment, if you don't mind," he said.  "Thank you, though."   

                There was a woman on the team whose job had been to take Clarice into custody.  Bowman called her out and told her to get Charlene dressed in something and to take the dress and other clothes into custody.  She took the drugged agent's hand and led her away.  A few minutes later, Charlene returned in a pair of slightly oversized black fatigues and boots.  She stared glassily around the table.  Her face seemed slack.  Agent Bowman didn't think Dr. Lecter was lying about having doped her up.  She sure looked it.  

                Clarice twitched briefly as the agents holding her made her stand in order to cuff her.  

                "Goddam you," she said hatefully.  "Why can't you just leave us alone?  What's next?"  

                "As I said," Lloyd Bowman repeated, meeting her eyes without flinching, "for now, the two of you are under arrest.  We'll get Agent Starling to a hospital and get her some help."  

                Charlene gave him a vapid stare.  Clarice snorted.  

                "Oh, that sounds _rich," _she said.  "That's what they said about me."  Her tone turned mocking.  "'We're gonna get you some help, Clarice'.  If that's your idea of help, you're pretty sick."  

                Bowman shook his head.  "I'm not going to do anything like that to her," he said.  "For now she's going to a hospital and detoxing from whatever the hell you did to her."  

                "What do we do with Starling and Lecter?" another agent asked.  Then, realizing his error, he specified "_Clarice _Starling."  

                Bowman considered.  "For now, the local county jail," he said.  "Call in some federal marshals.  We'll have them beef up the jail's security.  In the morning, we can put Dr. Lecter on a plane out to Colorado.  Starling…well, hell, Starling can go back to Greenwood."  

                Clarice Starling let out a wordless shriek of anger and hatred.  She launched herself at Bowman.  But it was too late; she was already handcuffed and there were two agents holding her arms.  They stopped her advance before she got three feet.  

                She glared at him in impotent fury.  

                "Goddam you, Bowman, I always thought you were better than this," she seethed.  "I guess not."  

                "Starling, it'll be OK," he replied.  "I'm serious about getting you some help, too."  

                "Meet the new boss," she spat.  "Same as the old boss."  

                She met her niece's eyes.  Charlene's eyes were blank.  They took a moment or two to focus on her aunt.  Clarice gritted her teeth and tried to control her rage.  She didn't want to give them anything to hang Charlene up on; she didn't deserve that.  Besides, if Charlene ended up in the can Clarice would be completely out of luck.  

                "Charlene," she said urgently.  "You know what they're gonna to do me.  You know.  Don't let them, honey.  Don't let them suck you back in."  

                More sirens came from outside and more vehicle grumbled over the crushed rock of the driveway.  The different whoop of an ambulance was different from the police sirens outside.  Blue and red lights lit up the outside of the house Dr. Lecter had rented.  

                Calmly, Lloyd Bowman led a slack-faced Charlene Starling outside.  She went along without complaint, following him docilely.  He found himself freaked out by it.  She'd been a good profiler.  Only person in years who managed to catch Dr. Lecter.  Had he rendered her psychotic?  Was she gonna go to a mental hospital herself?  What the hell was going on? 

                He put his hands on her shoulders and met her eyes.  

                "Starling," he said.  "Starling, it's Bowman.  C'mon, talk to me."  

                She said nothing, simply meeting his eyes from behind whatever wall Dr. Lecter had put in her mind.  

                "Starling, listen.  Whatever you went through in there, it's not your fault.  And we're gonna help your aunt.  I promise.  Hell…I know what Crawford did.  I won't do that.  Just c'mon, say something,"  

                "Okay," she said in a gravelly tone, and then said no more.  

                Clarice Starling and Dr. Hannibal Lecter were hustled out of the house and stuffed into the back of separate cars.  Charlene watched them go with the same slack expression on her face.  She seemed to have no more expression than a wax dummy.  

                "Starling," Bowman tried again, "it's gonna be OK.  We're gonna get you some help.  We're gonna help your aunt out, too.  This is what you wanted, remember?  You worked so hard for this."  

                Charlene nodded and looked down at herself as if realizing for the first time that she was no longer wearing the gown.  The ambulance crew hustled out of the back of the ambulance with a gurney.  Carefully, they helped Charlene to lie down on it.  They chattered above her, all medical lingo.  She did not betray any comprehension of what was going on around her.  

                At the hospital, there were doctors and nurses clucking over her in the ER.  A blood test made the doctor reading it purse his lips and whistle.  Charlene was taken up to a quiet floor and installed in a room.  There was no one else in the room with her, although there was another bed.  A nurse helped her change into a gown with brisk and impersonal cheeriness.  

                For a few hours she lay in her bed and stared out the window.  She did not move or speak.  The nursing staff began to murmur amongst themselves and wonder if she shouldn't be transferred to the psych ward.  Ultimately, the decision was to let her rest and see what happened once the drugs had filtered out of her system.  

                Lloyd Bowman showed up after all was said and done.  He smiled at the young woman.  

                "It's all OK now, Starling," he said.  "We've got the suspects in the local county jail.  It's a small place, but plenty secure.  They're in isolation cells on opposite wings of the jail.  They're not going anywhere until the morning, I can promise you that."  

                Charlene eyed him with no camaraderie.  

                "What's gonna happen to my aunt?" she asked flatly, the first time she had spoken since the FBI had shown up.  

                "She's going back to Greenwood," Bowman allowed.  Seeing her face, he shrugged guiltily.  "Look…I know what Crawford was gonna do. That's _not _gonna happen.  I promise.  I mean, McQuerry himself is missing.  You know anything about that?"  

                She did not reply.  Bowman decided to leave it be for now. 

                "She's gonna get the help she needs, Starling.  I promise.  So are you.  Just take it easy and we'll get this all taken care of."  

                She nodded wordlessly, her face inscrutable.  

                "Well, look," he said.  "It's late, and I ought to let you get some sleep.  You can see your aunt in the morning.   We'll be taking her back to Greenwood at seven AM.  If you're awake I'll come get you and you can have a visit with her."  

                "How about Dr. Lecter?" she asked.

                "We'll drive him to the airport at six-thirty.  Private flight chartered right for him, with non-stop service to Florence, Colorado.  Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars."  He chuckled nervously.  

                She nodded again.  

                "Must be kind of weird, coming home for you and all," he said.  

                "What?" Charlene asked. 

                Bowman frowned.  "Don't you…don't you know where you are?"  

                Charlene shook her head.  

                "West Virginia," he said.  "They brought you back to a little town in West Virginia.  Almost perfect, we never would've found him if he hadn't kidnapped Chief Crawford, God rest his soul.  Crawford managed to turn on his cell phone and stick it in his jacket pocket.  Led us right to him."   He shook his head.  

                "Get some sleep, Starling.  It's all gonna be OK."  

                He left then, feet silent on the linoleum.  Charlene was alone with her thoughts.  She found herself wondering where her aunt was.  Was she in a decent cell?  Was it clean?  She could hear the barred gates crash shut in her mind and shivered.  

                She was drugged, yes, but she could think more clearly than she had let on.  Her uncle had been Dr. Lecter.  That did not surprise her as much as she thought it might have.  On some level, she thought she had always known.  

                If she sat here, everything she had once wanted would be hers.  Dr. Lecter would go to prison and never be free.  Innocent people would be safe from him.  _She _would be safe from him.  Her aunt would recover and be part of society again.  

                But then there were nagging doubts.  Dr. Lecter could've turned her innards into a smorgasbord if he really wanted to; he could have made her resemble a Picasso painting.  She'd been completely helpless around him and he had refrained from harming a hair on her head.  Was he perhaps not so evil as she had once thought him to be?  

                Dr. Lecter and her aunt were both in a cell somewhere.  Caged, like animals.  Clarice would be delivered to the tender mercies of whoever had succeeded McQuerry.  Were they telling the truth this time?  Or should she try to stop them?    But what _could _she do?  She was only one person.   Trying to free them would likely end in failure.  They would end up locking her up too.  

                She was tired.  So tired.  A night's sleep would do her a world of good.  

                She had worked for this for a year. Things would go back to what she wanted.  All she had to do was wait until the morning.   

                Charlene Stenson Starling lay in her hospital bed and stared out the window, wondering which side to take.  


	21. Reversal

                _Author's note: Very quiet day at work today, so here you are, a double feature.  (No, Dr. Lecter will NOT build a creature, nor will androids fight anybody.) _

The county jail was quiet.  The inmates were all locked down for the night.  The guards were all settled in the places they went.  Some were located in the control center of the jail.  Some found rooms in which to sit and watch TV.  There weren't many of them.  This night had a bit of excitement, for the small county jail held two famous prisoners:  Dr. Hannibal Lecter on the far end of the men's cellblock, and Clarice Starling on the far end of the women's.  

                When they'd been brought in, of course, all the guards had gone down to see them.  Their jail had suddenly become a zoo.  The feds had come in, more feds than anyone at the jail could ever remember seeing.  Both Lecter and Starling had been laden down in chains.  Agent Bowman had ordered them held in isolation, and the jail had complied.  The famous prisoners were on opposite ends of the jail.  There would be no contacting each other.  They were confined behind thick steel doors, not bars.  

                But neither of them obliged their captors.  Both Dr. Lecter and Clarice simply laid down on their respective bunks and turned away from the door.  Neither one responded to any calls or attempts to start a conversation.  Simply an imperially slim man and an attractive woman, lying on a bunk, facing away from the door.  

                The jail guard working at the front door glanced up as the door opened.  A small color TV under his desk proved more interesting to him than the monitors showing what was happening in the jail.  He snapped it off as the visitor came closer with some annoyance.  A young woman entered, her face flushed red.  She wore black fatigues.  At first, the guard thought she was SWAT.  He found himself wondering if she was OK.  She looked kind of off, as if she was drunk or on drugs or something.  

                "I need to see Dr. Lecter," she said.  

                The guard shook his head.  "Ma'am, we've had a few phone calls.  He's not available for interviews.  We have orders from the FBI."  

                Charlene Stenson Starling displayed her ID.  "I _am _the FBI," she said firmly.  She put both hands on the desk in order to support herself.  "I'm the agent who arrested him.  My name is Charlene Starling.  I need to know that he's in jail."  

                The guard considered.  She was FBI, not a reporter or something like that.  But still.  

                "Ma'am, it's a little late," he said.  

                "I don't care," she said.  "I…I have to see him.  It's very important that I see him."  

                The guard sighed.  "Ma'am, are you OK?  I mean, I can get you down there, sure, but you look kinda sick."  

                Charlene gritted her teeth.  "I'm fine," she lied.  The drugs were finally wearing off, and she felt hot and flushed and tired.   But she'd been able to sneak out of the hospital OK.  And this was the only time she could do this.  In three hours, Dr. Lecter would be on a plane to Colorado, where he would never know freedom again.  Aunt Clarice would be delivered back to Greenwood half an hour later.  

                She wasn't sure _why _she was doing this.  Part of her still screamed that Dr. Lecter was dangerous.  Hadn't he shown that already?  He'd rendered one person a mindless freak and killed another.  Innocent people were at risk as long as he was free.

                But then there was another part of her, part of her that reminded her that McQuerry and Crawford weren't innocent.  And there was a voice, a voice she remembered only through a dim veil of drugs and hypnosis.  She _thought _it was Dr. Lecter, but she was not sure.  He'd spoken of Dr. Lecter in the third person, but she still thought it was he. It was during the timeless mist of her therapy.

                _Charlene, I must apologize…what Dr. Lecter told you in the cell in Argentina was…in error. He was angry and sought to protect Clarice.   Your aunt does care for you, quite deeply. She did not realize how it had made you suffer and she does deeply regret it.  You remember her speaking of it with you?  Did you believe her when she said it?   She went with Dr. Lecter because I…because **he **wanted her to be happy.  And happy she was.  You do want her to be happy, don't you?  _

Yes.  Yes, she did.  Aunt Clarice deserved to be happy.  And Dr. Lecter…

                _Charlene, you've said that you believe Dr. Lecter to deserve incarceration because he threatens innocent people.  Might I ask you this?  What if Dr. Lecter forswore violence against those innocent?  Could you accept that?  Surely sometimes elderly prisoners are released on compassionate grounds.  How different would this be?  What if Dr. Lecter solemnly promised to never harm you?  Would that satisfy your fear for your own safety?  I see…no, no, it was quite reasonable of you to think Dr. Lecter might seek revenge.  He had done it before.  But let's just ask if he did promise you that you would live your life unmolested by him.  Would you be willing to then let an old man live out his remaining years with the woman he loves?  _

And again…yes.  If he agreed to kill no more innocents, if he left her be, she would be willing to let him live his life.  It would have to be in another country, she knew that.  She did not want Dr. Lecter in the United States. She had taken an oath and she meant to keep it.  In another country he would be someone else's problem.  

                The guard called another to the front to take her down to Dr. Lecter's cell.   The second guard walked her down calmly.  He tried to make some conversation, perhaps curious why a flushed, sick-looking FBI agent was here at three in the morning, but Charlene displayed little interest.  Her hand crept into the pocket of her BDU pants.  

                Barred gates crashed open and closed.  The guard had to unlock each one.  He had a big bunch of keys on his belt.  Charlene counted.   Four gates.  She'd seen the sign to the women's cellblock.  Figure a total of eight.  

                For the second time in her life, Charlene Starling approached the cell door of Dr. Hannibal Lecter.  This time, there were no rats.  This time, she felt no anger.  The door looked incredibly heavy and thick.  Dr. Lecter would not escape such a cell.   A camera nearby recorded the events for later viewing.  

                Dr. Lecter rolled over and saw Charlene standing there.  He ignored the guard as he usually did.  For the first time since he had been sealed in this cell, he showed some interest in someone outside of his door.  He got up from his bunk and walked over to stand in front of the door.  Graceful as a dancer, he put his hands behind his back and watched them expectantly.  

                "Dr. Lecter," Charlene rasped.  

                "Charlene," Dr. Lecter said politely.  

                "So how does it feel?" she asked with no malice.  "You almost got away…and here you are."  

                Dr. Lecter shrugged.  "You're better than I gave you credit for, Charlene," he said.  "The mistake is mine."  

                Charlene hunched over slightly as if unsteady.  "I brought you some of your drawings," she said.  Then she turned to the guard.  "Open his food slot, please.  I want to give them to him."  

                The guard sighed.  "He ain't supposed to have no property on him."  

                "It's paper," Charlene said.  "Nothing he can't have according to jail regulations."  

                The guard let out an exhalation of frustration, but he reached down to open up the food slot on Dr. Lecter's door.  

                "Back up to the back of your cell, Lecter," he said.  

                Dr. Lecter complied.  He did not back up to the far end of the cell.  The jail guard did not notice this, which would later be seen as his first mistake.  The guard did not check on him as he bent down, fumbling for the key, which was his second mistake.  

                Dr. Lecter took a quiet step forward.  Then another.  When the guard unlocked the food slot and opened it, he was ready.  He understood what was about to happen.  

                Charlene put a hand to her forehead and let out a low moan, as if unsteady.  She stumbled forward and bumped into the guard.  She bumped into him hard enough to knock him off balance.  

                The keys clattered to the bottom of the food slot.  Dr. Lecter grabbed them and swept them into his cell with one hand.  With the other, he grabbed the guard's shirt.  A moment later he had both hands on the guard.  It was difficult to reach up through the food slot, but Dr. Lecter was strong and capable.  He slammed the guard's head into the steel door a few times as hard as he could.  

                The guard was unconscious and slithered to the ground when Dr. Lecter let go of him.  After that, Dr. Lecter set about unlocking himself from the inside.  It was not at all convenient to reach up through the food slot and Dr. Lecter's knees protested mightily as he had to contort himself.  After all, he was a man of older years.  

                He hauled the guard inside and switched clothes with him quickly.  The uniform was absolutely without taste – an ugly shade of brown.  But it would get him out of here.   

                Charlene stood outside his cell as he stepped out.  The guard's cap did not quite fit his head, but he wedged it on as best he could.  Its protection against the camera would be welcome.  He'd seen them as he was brought down here.   He grabbed Charlene by the throat and walked her backwards, pinning her against the wall.  

                Charlene's hands grabbed his, but she was still too weak and too drugged to put up any real resistance.  Her face contorted.    Dr. Lecter eyed her calmly.   He had only one chance.  She seemed to know that despite herself.  Overhead, the camera watched relentlessly.

                "Well, Charlene," he said.  "Here we are."  

                Charlene nodded and tilted her head at the camera.  

                "Eight gates," she said without moving her lips.  "Aunt Clarice is at the end of the women's cellblock.  Just go, you shouldn't have any problem.  Guards are watching TV."  

                Dr. Lecter nodded.  

                "Don't make it hurt, Dr. Lecter," Charlene said, oddly calm.  She'd reached her decision.  This was the best way.  The only way.  From his eyes, he understood what had to happen as well.  They would be free and together…and Charlene could finally be at peace. 

                He could sense the camera recording overhead.  Were the guards paying attention?  Probably not.  Otherwise they would have been down here.  Sleeping on the job.  But there was the camera, and the camera expected him to be a monster.  So for its sake, he would be one.  

                "It won't hurt," Dr. Lecter assured her.  "I shall promise you that."  

                He firmed up his grip on her throat. Self-preservation made her fight a bit, but she wasn't able to break his grip.  She began to relax as prior victims of Dr. Lecter had relaxed, knowing that they didn't have to fight anymore, that all their pain would soon be over.  

                Then Dr. Hannibal Lecter settled his fingers around her throat and began to squeeze. 


	22. At Peace

                _Author's note:  Here we are, the end of the story.  Never quite expected this one to be as popular as it got, but all good things come to an end.  And no, Charlene didn't die._

THREE YEARS LATER: 

                The offices of the Mansfield Children's Psychiatric Center were quieting down.  Charlene headed back to her office.  She'd just finished a session with a young boy whose father had died a few months.  It was sad, but he was making progress.  

                Her boss caught up with her as she was getting ready to head out.  Thank God she didn't have to work as late as she had.  She was happier in this job than she had been before.  Her work was challenging, but she had plenty to do.  

                She'd just finished her dissertation, and it was with no small pride that Charlene eyed the nameplate on her door: _Charlene S. Stenson, PhD.  _

"How was Billy?" her boss asked.  

                She nodded as if to indicate things were coming along.  "Billy's upset about his dad," she said.  "But he's coming along.  He's afraid that he'll have to be the daddy of the house now.  I've been working with him, and it's going along."  

                "That's a lot for an eight-year-old."  

                "It's a lot foranybody."  

                "Must be different for you, here," her boss said.  "I mean, before you were working in the FBI, Behavioral Sciences and all that."  

                Charlene shrugged.  "It really wasn't what I wanted to do," she said.  "Besides, reading all those horrors, seeing all those horrible things…you get tired of it.  I did.  I'm happier here with the kids.  At least most of them are normal.  They just need a little help."  

                He didn't need to know about the days just after Dr. Lecter's escape. Criminal charges had not really been an option.  Charlene had been found throttled unconscious in the jail hallway with bruises from the monster's very hands on her throat.  No DA in the world wanted to argue that Charlene had been the accomplice of the man who had kidnapped her, drugged her, and finally strangled her.  

                Her future in the Bureau would have been murkier.  Eventually, she might have been forgiven, but she had already made up her mind.  Why spend five years waiting for it to blow over?  She'd resigned from the Bureau a month after Dr. Lecter and Clarice had vanished into the night.  

                The hunt for them went on and always would.  But it was fruitless.  They'd found Clarice's cell door open, with Dr. Lecter's fingerprints on the cell door.  The jail guard they had found in Dr. Lecter's cell kept his car keys on his uniform belt.  They'd found the car dumped outside the Wheeling airport.  And that was all that anyone had ever seen of Dr. Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling.  

                Charlene pondered that on the drive home.  She still had Aunt Clarice's Mustang.  She'd needed it – after going back for her PhD, she'd been pretty damn poor for a while.  The money was better now that she had her degree.  But she'd never needed too much.  

                Bowman occasionally had tried to wheedle her back.  He'd promised her that none of the uproar from the Lecter/Starling escape would mean anything.  So far, she had refused.  Child psychology suited her.  She loved dealing with the kids, loved helping the kids.  In Behavioral Sciences she'd never gotten to see any of that.  

                It was better for her, too.  She didn't feel angry anymore.  Occasionally, an email from a hotmail or yahoo account would arrive in her email.  Other times, a letter or package would arrive.  Sometimes, her phone would ring at night.  In each case, greetings from both of them.  Occasionally it was a chatty letter; other times her aunt's glad voice on the phone.  Then his, calm and avuncular.  

                _They _were perfectly happy.  Sometimes Charlene found herself jealous.  Postmarks from their letters were from Rome one time, Paris the next, Buenos Aires after that.  Then again, she'd built herself a little life here and she liked it.  No man in her life, at least not yet, but there was time for that.  She had a career and that was more important to her right now.  

                Charlene drove up to the trim, neat condo she lived in and headed for her door.  Her eyes narrowed.  Something was different.  The instincts she had cultivated as an FBI agent were still there.  The light was off in the kitchen, and she usually left it on.  

                She still had a concealed weapon permit, and she put her hand on her gun now.  Never knew when some criminal she'd put away might come back seeking revenge.  Then again, most of her time had been spent seeking out Dr. Lecter, and he'd agreed to leave her alone.  

                Or had he?  

                She opened the door and crept into the house, her gun out and at the ready.  Hopefully it wasn't the meter reader or something.  As she entered the house, she could tell something was _definitely _different.  Her kitchen table now sported a silk tablecloth.  A chafing dish sat atop her table.  A few candles glittered. 

                Charlene felt herself more at ease, seeing that.  But then again, it could be a psychotic French chef invading her home.  She advanced into the living room, her gun held high.  

                There were two figures in standing in it.  One in a dress, the other in a long overcoat and fedora.  When she entered, both figures stood.  

                "You needn't be afraid, Charlene," the one figure said.  "I apologize for not letting you know we were here, but as you know we must travel incognito."  

                Charlene sighed and lowered the pistol.  "You didn't have to scare me," she said, and lowered the pistol.  "You _could _have called."  

                "It wasn't possible," the figure said.  "I apologize for any inconvenience.  But we have brought you dinner.  I trust that will make up for that."  

                Charlene eyed the figure with some suspicion.  

                "Nothing…exotic."  

                Dr. Hannibal Lecter turned on the light to reveal himself and Clarice.  "We have a bit of news," he said.  "Something we wanted to tell you personally.  Secrecy was vital, Charlene."  

                Charlene tilted her head and stared at the couple in front of her.  

                "Okay," she said uncertainly.  "What is it?"  It occurred to her how odd this was.  She had spent a year trying to see this man in prison.  When that had happened, she'd been afraid that he would seek his revenge.  Now here he was.  He'd broken into her home.  He was sitting right in her living room.  And she felt not a twinge of fear.  

                Clarice Starling smiled with a pure, rosy joy she had not known since Argentina.  

                "I'm pregnant," she said softly.  

                Charlene took a moment to stare at her aunt in surprise.  

                "That's…that's great, Aunt Clarice," she managed.  "Congratulations.   What are you…what are you going to do?"  

                "We've arranged for a nice little hidey-hole," Clarice said.  "Little low-profile place where we can live in peace.  We'll tell you all the details.  How are you?"  

                "Fine," Charlene said.  "Work's busy, but I like it."  

                "Ah yes.  A psychologist."  Considerately, Dr. Lecter did not mention his thoughts on a PhD.  "I can say, _I _much prefer you working with children to where you were previously.  But come, let's eat."  

                The dinner proved to be excellent.  

                FIN


End file.
